


All Grogged Up

by headsupimhere



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Angst, Canon Timeline, Drinking, Drunk Sex, During Canon, Fluff, M/M, Porn With Plot, Porn with too much plot, Possible Spoilers, Smut, What if Scenario, chapter 2, drunken sexy times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-10-07 13:49:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 22,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17367026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/headsupimhere/pseuds/headsupimhere
Summary: What if Arthur had become part of Dutch Van der Linde's life much later; and in a different context?





	1. All In for a Good Time

“Another, Hosea! On me!” Dutch calls uproariously, the liquor already getting, regrettably, to his head. That is, as far as he’d say, seeing as he’s had upwards of some ungodly amount of shots and is holding a second mug of beer in his hand. His voice barely pushes through the boisterous amount of noise surrounding them, several other people celebrating their various festivities on the very same night. Dutch’s companion — though only a few years his senior, habitually restated to anyone casually mentioning his appearance — laughs a little and places his hand on Dutch’s shoulder.

“Sorry, my friend, but,” Hosea reaches over and slides the beer mug out from Dutch’s loose grasp, bringing it closer to himself. He has no intention of drinking it, never having been too much of an alcoholic. Especially after seeing what kind of man Dutch becomes when intoxicated. He simply wants to remove the drink from Dutch’s peripherals in the case that is what keeps him drinking. “I think you’ve had enough for one evening. Any more and I’ll have to toss you over the back of my own horse and take you back that way.” Dutch lets out a laugh, neither too loud nor too reserved, clapping his own hand down on Hosea’s shoulder.

“Ah, good humour has always been in your best interest, hasn’t it, Hosea?” He smiles and glances away, patting the area where his hand had placed itself a few more times before removing it and placing it comfortably in his lap.

“Yes, indeed, but my words happen to be sincere this time. And I doubt your poor head will take too kindly to the constant jostling.” Dutch’s attention has already been grabbed by a pair of women standing beside the bar and surrounding a none-too-happy and  _ clearly _ taken man, but the amused grin on Dutch’s face shows Hosea that he hadn’t quite ruined the mood. Had he gotten through to his associate, likely not.

Hosea leans himself back in the chair and finds himself drifting rather easily into his thoughts despite only having had a single beer. Perhaps it’s the subject of the matter, however, picturing Bessie as she used to smile at his words aimed to amuse her, or the subtle glances she used to pass over her shoulder when he was initially courting her. Such a wonderful woman she was, he reminisces. His thoughts are briefly interrupted by Dutch standing from his seat and placing his palm down on the table to lean closer. The man’s breath is heavily reflecting on his evening’s activities, but Hosea doesn’t open his mouth to comment on it.

Dutch had been watching the scene play out between the two women, clearly trying to make themselves a living from this man’s pay, and failing in every account. The man’s face had shifted between several different emotions, from disgust and anger to a curious, yet feeble denial, finishing with a fit of full-fledged anger. This is, of course, when the man stormed away and out the door, out of which the women followed him. Out of pure curiosity, Dutch’s mind requested his following of these women, the wrong side of his brain leading him to imagine what he could do with them.

“I think I’ll go step outside for a moment, I’ve got a hankering to smoke that new cigar.” Hosea nods and watches as Dutch heads towards the door, hands finding several places to balance the man’s weight every few steps. As soon as the man is out of view, Hosea relaxes again and allows himself to disappear into his mind.

Dutch, on the other hand, stumbles out the doors and stands there on the portico, gazing out at the town. Granted, it is far different from what he’d seen it as when he arrived at the town just a couple hours earlier, but he can still moderately read the sign for the general store across the way, and he can see the people passing in front of the saloon. His gaze does not catch the women or the man fleeing the scene in a rush, but he finds no real disappointment in this fact and simply leans his weight against one of the columns, reaching into a pocket and retrieving the cigar he’d been waiting to smoke since he’d stolen it from that high-end homestead out west, along with a tin of matches. Biting the cap of the cigar and spitting it to the side, he places it between his teeth and drags a match along the underside of his boot. The flame is gently held to the end of the already ornate-tasting item as it is slowly twisted by Dutch’s other hand. He drags out short puffs to get it going before finally tossing the match to the dirt ground, leaving it to burn.

Just as he’d expected, the taste is exquisite. Like something of a dream. Then again, most tastes would lull his palate into such an intricate and deceitful dance, seeing as he’s only really experienced the best when it’s been stolen or repetitiously manipulated from someone.

He finds the time standing outside rather calming. While the doors behind him hardly do anything to mask the noise, it is a great amount quieter outside than it is in, and he silently thanks himself for removing his already-aching head from the cause. He’s aware that the morning will be tougher than it is now, but all he has to do is survive the night, and he can treat an impending migraine in the morning. That is an issue for future Dutch to handle, not the immature and bubbly version making its way through his usual façade.

After a few minutes of watching the town go about its business and absentmindedly searching for the women, he retires from his spot and turns to head back into the saloon. However, when his fingertips are just a few inches from pushing open those batwing doors, he finds his arm recoiling from how harshly the doors are flung open.


	2. All It's Chalked Up To Be

A man stands before him, and if Dutch had known any better, he would’ve thought this man was in his way, obstructing his path. But he doesn’t know better, so he cracks a drunken grin and watches as the man glances past him and around him, but hardly at him.

“Par’ner,” the man greets, to which Dutch leans into the path of the gaze and reintroduces his smile.

“Evening,” Dutch says, standing straight in time with the other man, having finally caught his attention. “Lookin’ for somethin’?” Watching as the man’s eyes drift away and glance up at the roof above them, Dutch can tell that this man is even further gone than he is. The gentle sway of his body may have given it away as well, if that very thing wasn’t happening to Dutch, only in smaller bouts.

“Yeah, a person, actually. Good kid. Name’s…” The man steps to the side as a woman clears her throat and directs them both aside, granting herself access. “...Lenny?”

“Yours?” Dutch grins, lifting the cigar to point lazily at the man speaking before him.

“Mine? No, Lenny’s not mine, just a friend, is all...” It only takes a moment before the question registers in the man’s brain, but it’s long enough that Dutch busts out laughing. The man joins in momentarily until he gathers his breath and finally introduces himself. “Arthur.” He sticks out a hand, Dutch taking it in his own and giving it one simple shake.

“Dutch,” he replies, retracting his hand. Arthur looks at him and starts cracking up again, the smile splitting onto his face within seconds and growing quickly. Just seeing this, Dutch can’t help his own laughter, despite not knowing the topic of their jubilation.

“Like… like the country?” Arthur slurs, to which Dutch snorts and shakes his head.

“Nah, that ain’t a country. You’re thinkin’ the uh… the Netherlands.”

“The Netherlands, eh?” Arthur repeats, to which he is rewarded a nod. “Well, then  _ Dutch, _  I have to say, I might need some schoolin’ on your ‘Nether Regions’.” Dutch throws his head back in howling laughter.

“Nether _ lands _ ,” he corrects, and Arthur simply raises a hand to wave him off before joining in with his own chuckling. Dutch tosses an arm over Arthur’s shoulders and looks out at the town, idly searching for the feller dubbed “Lenny”, while still enjoying the pleasant company of a fellow man. He figures that this was worth his time, especially after chasing so fruitlessly after those women as he had.

At some point, they completely forget this Lenny character and enter the saloon again, only to find themselves at the bar once more. Dutch begins to pay for Arthur’s shots, to which Arthur boldly exclaims that he’s “no fair maiden in need of a pitying man’s payment” and proceeds to throw down double the number of coins to buy for both of them. The bartender eventually cuts them off and stops paying attention to them, at which time they cross the room and sit down at a slightly more secluded table with one another.

Dutch is pleased to find a chess board in front of them, and ends up more than not, teaching Arthur how to play chess. He’s surprised at first, what with their first game-ending with both of them taking turns chasing each others’ queen around, with the two being the only pieces left on the board. Dutch wins after a few turns, catching Arthur by a technicality and dashing his piece off of the board. In their second game, before Arthur loses his focus, Dutch goes out on a limb and makes an offer.

“I win, you and I head over to the inn for a while. You win,” Dutch pulls out a stack of cash and puts it on the table. It takes Arthur a moment, but he agrees, a confident grin on his face, despite having only played one game and not even winning said game. This doesn’t stop him, though, and Dutch finds himself trying harder this time. Whether it’s the premonition of losing money driving him or the sheer curiosity peeking through his drunken stupor driving him, he’ll never know.

After only a few short moves, Dutch’s knight knocks Arthur’s queen from its spot. Glancing up, Dutch sees a look of mischief on his face. So far, Arthur had only been moving pawns in this game, a defensive move rather than an offensive move, as he’d been using before their little bet. In another few short moves, Dutch mutters the word, “check”, and Arthur glances up to show him a snide grin. Dutch returns it, not allowing Arthur to make his move and simply knocking the king from its placement. Arthur picks up the stack of cash and presses it to Dutch’s chest, standing and heading towards the door.

Dutch is directly behind him within moments, following along after having stuffed the cash in his pocket again. Only as they cross the walkway does he remember Hosea being at the saloon as well, but he’s sure the man will get himself back perfectly fine, seeing as he’s older and wiser, also far less drunk. A little snicker passes through his lips and Arthur only glances back, set on what he’s doing. Neither of their foot patterns is very straight, seen clearly in the dirt, but neither of them really care either.

The room is requested within moments, Arthur seeming to have sobered up quite a bit since the beginning of their second game. Dutch wonders if there’s something wrong, if he’d said something out of place, or if Arthur felt forced into this, simply because it was a bet over money.

His suspicions disappear, however, as soon as the door is shut and locked behind him when Arthur presses himself flush against Dutch, whose back is flat against the wall. Arthur’s breath is hot against his skin, but the warmth is not what catches him off-guard, it’s the fact that he’s suddenly much soberer as well. Certainly, there is still a heavy haze surrounding the edges of his vision, but he’s thinking a bit clearer. Does he really know what he’s doing, and is he thinking about the consequences? Not necessarily, but he’s made a lot of mistakes in life already, why not add another to the list?


	3. In the Rough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was never too good at writing smut, so expect too much foreplay and too little of the good stuff!

The back of Dutch’s head meets the wall, tilted back to let out a quiet breath of surprised pleasure. He hadn’t guessed that he’d be feeling this way with a man, especially because of his strong infatuation with women. He sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth as Arthur’s lips pass over his Adam’s apple. Arthur’s breath is so  _ hot _ , and he’s  _ right there _ .

Dutch’s hands roam, fingers pressing into Arthur’s shoulders before he slides them along the curve of the man’s back. Arthur continues to press open-mouthed and absent minded kisses to Dutch’s skin, seemingly avoiding any real kisses. Dutch is immediately certain that he will not let this pass, of course, and ducks his head, catching Arthur’s lips with his own. Within seconds, Dutch feels Arthur’s entire being relax against him, his muscles finally allowing him to truly press up against Dutch.

After a few moments of heated kissing, Arthur peels Dutch away from the wall and walks him backwards to the bed. As soon as the backs of Dutch’s thighs hit the mattress, though, Dutch’s hands firmly clutch Arthur’s hips and push the younger of the two down onto the bed. Granted, Arthur is just about Dutch’s height and likely about the same weight, but Dutch handles him like he’s nothing as he tosses the man onto the bed and clambers up after him.

Arthur pushes himself up onto an elbow as Dutch nears and leans over him, their lips connecting again to begin another round of fervid snogging, though this time the both of them have an immediate plan of action. Both of them yearn for control, but they are both fully aware, even in their haze, that only one is going to come out on top.

Dutch’s hands pull at Arthur’s jacket and the two of them readjust to remove it. The item of clothing is tossed aside while Arthur’s fingers begin to work at Dutch’s vest. The fervent digits halt in their movements for a moment as Dutch’s lips slide along Arthur’s cheek bone and his teeth catch Arthur’s ear lobe, Dutch noticing the pause in movement before Arthur seems to. A smile creeps onto Dutch’s face, the man taking a mental note of that reaction despite knowing he’ll forget it within a few minutes. Arthur falls back against the mattress.

Slowly dragging his lips along the side of Arthur’s neck, making sure to softly breathe against the skin, he slowly lifts the suspenders from Arthur’s shoulders, leaves them slack over the sheets, unbuttons the shirt and proceeds down the dips and curves of Arthur’s body. The man’s chest is rising and falling so quickly, it’s almost unnerving to Dutch. All he does is slide his hands across the blank canvas of rapidly-moving skin. Eventually, Dutch’s attention falls on Arthur’s fingers having given up in their attempt of removing the vest. Sitting up, Dutch unbuttons it and his shirt, tossing them in the general direction he’d thrown Arthur’s jacket just moments earlier. Leaning down again, he reconnects their passionate kiss from however long ago it’s been.

However, after only a few moments of one man’s lips dancing with another’s, (which Arthur has easily become acquainted with by now), the tables are turned and Dutch’s back is pressed into the cheap covers and uneven mattress. He’s not at all unhappy with the results, however, with the view being of a half-exposed Arthur, flushed as all hell, straddling his stomach and rigorously grinding down against his hips.

Dutch doesn’t let Arthur’s actions go to waste, gritting his teeth and letting a carnal groan flow through them. He finds no reason to touch — despite his mind hollering at him to, “what if I don’t take advantage of this wonderful chance and lose it” being the main argument — the merchandise, so he finds himself raising his arms and comfortably tucking them behind his head to prop it up and enjoy the show. The drowsiness of the liquor is beginning to get to him, but he’ll ignore it, put it off and shake himself to keep awake for as long as he possibly can, especially if he’s got this amazing display to stay awake for.

As Dutch lets out several more breathy sounds, he can’t help but see that Arthur is silently troubled by something, and that his silent distress is clear in those eyes. Dutch can almost guess what is being stressed about, just from their position and the way Arthur’s Adam’s apple has been bobbing with very little sound being elicited. Arthur wants control, but he’s realising now that he’d rather try the opposite end of the spectrum, and he doesn’t want to be seen as soft or delicate like a woman. Dutch understands, or at least he thinks he does, in his, wobbly at best, state of mind.

“What’re you thinkin’ so hard on up there, boy?” Dutch asks, an arm removing itself from under Dutch’s head and placing itself gently on Arthur’s hip. The movement is not acknowledged in any visual way, but the words are, and Arthur’s face scrunches up in a deeper concern. Those hips still slowly roll against his own, but Dutch doesn’t quite feel it as much when he sits up and places a kiss at the spot just below Arthur’s lips. “Arthur, there’s a first for everythin’, inn’t there?” Arthur looks down into Dutch’s eyes and slowly melts at the words. Dutch provides a small smile, flopping back down against the mattress, still warm from where he’d been lying just moments before.

“I like this,” Arthur breathes, unable to hold himself back from pressing his hips down rather harshly against Dutch’s groin. This evokes a soft moan from the both of them, and Arthur nods, his brows furrowed in a heavy confusion. “Damn, I like it a  _ lot _ .” Dutch’s hand is still resting against Arthur’s hip as the unbuttoned shirt is finally tossed out of sight, and they are both left bare-chested.

Dutch bucks his hips up into Arthur’s, gaining a surprised sound from the more elevated of the two men, and ruts them there as Arthur counters the force. In general, Dutch can feel himself being rather affected by their actions, and he wants his pants off more than anything, as they are restricting and are causing him a moderate deal of discomfort at the moment. Arthur seems to catch on, removing himself after that last bout of sensation and sliding both of their boots off.

When Arthur returns to the bed, Dutch pushes him down onto his back and kisses every inch of skin he can, both hands swiftly working the belt around Arthur’s waist off. Dropping it on the bed beside them, he returns to unfasten the button on Arthur’s pants. The pieces of fabric are forgotten over the edge of the bed with the rest of their clothes and Dutch presses the heel of his palm gently against the visible bulge, working his hand in a slow circle. He keeps an eye on Arthur’s face as it contorts and those eyebrows knit together in a steep peak.

“Feel good?” Dutch whispers, to which Arthur responds with a choked, gruff moan, followed by a nod. “Good,” Dutch purrs in a low tone. Arthur’s hands are desperately grabbing for Dutch’s belt as his last effort of keeping the control, searching desperately in hopes of moving this along. He feels the cold metal against his fingertips and tugs harshly on the buckle, Dutch being pulled closer with the movement. Dutch’s hand presses down with more force as a result, causing Arthur to let out another strangled sound. His back lifts off of the mattress to finish the chain reaction.

Arthur’s other hand moves to undo the belt buckle, yanking it through the belt loops and casting it to the floor. Dutch shifts from his position, removing his hand from the man below him in order to slip out of the restricting clothes. Immediately feeling the difference, he can’t help but let out a sigh of relief. There’s a gentle sensation of fingers sliding along the length of his spine, Arthur sitting up behind him and leaning his chest against Dutch’s back. Dutch presses into the warmth behind him, feeling the lips and occasional teeth on the back of his neck. Tilting his head forward, he gently inhales and catches a glimpse of Arthur’s hand reaching around to grasp Dutch’s length through the remaining fabric. Those surprisingly skilled fingers make quick work of encouraging Dutch’s relaxation, the man’s hips gently driving forward into that hand several times in the process.

As Arthur kisses and nips at Dutch’s neck, he comes to the realisation that he could (and wholeheartedly plans to) have complete control over this man, while still getting what it is he desires at the same time. Tugging Dutch further onto the mattress, he moves from his current place and returns to the straddling position he had been in several minutes ago, grinding down against those hips in one fluid motion.

Dutch’s hands fly to Arthur’s thighs, thumbs pressing into the muscles as his back curls away from the sheets. He lets out a low breath to keep his head, eyes only shutting for a moment before they open again to observe Arthur’s expressions. A shiver is sent directly along Arthur’s spine when one of Dutch’s hands removes itself from a thigh and gently runs a finger along the fabric just below Arthur’s navel. Arthur continues to rock left and right against Dutch, but keeps it simple and slow as he watches Dutch’s hand delve under the waistband.

Arthur finally feeling Dutch’s rings, fairly cold in comparison, against his cock, is like heaven on earth. Dutch slowly strokes his fingers along the shaft, drinking in the view of Arthur’s absolute bliss passing over his features. Dutch repositions his legs and lifts his hips to meet Arthur’s, slowly picking up in pace as Arthur’s skin flushes a consistently deeper red.

“Fuck,” Arthur pants out, lips white from being pushed together so harshly and eyebrows knit together. “Dutch, I need…” His words seem so difficult to say in the moment; it’s so difficult to express what he needs without supposedly ruining his credibility. But, he supposes, the only other man present is Dutch, and they both are pretty far from reality, seeing as they’re doing this in such a public place. He wonders if a priest will burst through the door and chastise them for their sins.

Dutch nods, silently agreeing. He pushes his elbows under him to prop himself up, pulling on Arthur’s last remaining piece of clothing. Arthur adjusts and lifts himself off, dropping the unimportant piece of fabric over the edge. Dutch does this as well, sitting up to do this for himself. Glancing over, he begins to truly admire Arthur’s body, in all of its glory, right in front of him.

“God damn,” he whispers, a hungry look in his eyes as he moves forward suddenly and catches Arthur off-guard, pinning him to the bed. His chest is rising and falling visibly again, but this time, Arthur’s wrists are held just above his head as Dutch presses his hips against Arthur’s. “Not sure why I dinn’t try this sooner, if this is what I’ve been missin’ out on.” Arthur chokes back a quiet, wanton moan at the friction, now amplified by the skin-on-skin contact. He doesn’t fight the hands on his wrists, rather liking the position they’re in, as strange as it may sound.

“Ain’t so bad on my end, either,” Dutch moves to hold Arthur’s wrists where they are with one hand, the other lowering and moving along Arthur’s cock again. His thumb dips into the slit, spreading the collected precum along Arthur’s erection as he strokes. Arthur’s hips steadily push into Dutch’s hand as it moves, keeping the man on a strict schedule.

After only a few moments, Dutch lets up on Arthur’s wrists to use both hands, but Arthur doesn’t move his arms. He keeps them there, enjoying being pleasured, rather than simply pleasuring another, for once. Dutch keeps his eyes on Arthur’s face as he touches his fingers to his own lips and slicks up his fingers. Arthur watches Dutch’s tongue with a trained eye, swallowing a few words of questioning. He has an idea of what this is, but he’s unsure. Before tonight, he had thought he would never enjoy something like this, but here he is now. Dutch retracts his fingers from his mouth, sighing and removing his other hand from Arthur’s length. He lifts one of Arthur’s legs and hooks it over his shoulder.

“M’sure it ain’t  _ the _ best, but it’s the best we got, so it’ll have to do for now,” Dutch purrs in that velvety voice of his. Sitting up straighter, he lifts Arthur’s lower half off of the bed and softly touches the area with a dry finger, just to get Arthur used to the feeling in general before diving in head-first. He feels Arthur tense for a moment and relax, so he slowly drags a finger over Arthur’s entrance and circles it. Leaning down, he connects their lips and keeps Arthur’s mind above the waist while Dutch works him open. It’s already been long enough since this started, all he wants now is to be inside of Arthur.

Arthur moves a hand down to stroke himself, soft pants passing through his lips as he looks Dutch in the eyes. Their faces are in such a close proximity, he’s not sure if he’ll ever forget specifically what colour Dutch’s eyes are. His lips are parted, eyes half-lidded due to a mixture of the alcohol and the pleasure of it all. Arthur removes the fingers from around himself and pushes up slightly onto his other hand, licking a stripe along his palm and stroking Dutch’s cock. He lifts his hips, arching his back every now and again as Dutch’s fingers move inside him, but eventually, Dutch pulls his fingers out and can safely say that Arthur is prepared, at least physically.

Arthur lies back and places one hand above his head, the other lazily sliding along his own length. Dutch spreads Arthur’s legs, hooking them loosely around his waist as he slowly pushes in. The expression on Arthur’s face is priceless, the way his jaw drops and his eyes clamp shut. They open again moments later to see Dutch’s face, and Arthur can’t stop himself from letting out a silky groan at the pure feeling of it. It’s such a strange sensation, but it feels so wonderful at the same time.

Dutch pulls his hips back and steadily presses them forward again, drawing a sharp inhale from Arthur, who still doesn’t know how to feel about the situation. Leaning down, Dutch feels his legs point forward and Arthur’s tighten slightly as his lower half is lifted from the cushion of the bed. He quickens the pace for a moment, Arthur’s head tilting back as he huffs a needy moan.

“G-god,” Arthur chokes, swallowing shallowly and allowing his neck to relax again. Dutch leans down after setting a quicker pace, wrapping his arms around Arthur’s waist and lifting him off of the bed. He holds Arthur close as his legs shift, feeling Arthur roll his hips to get comfortable in this position. Arthur keeps a hand around himself, lifting the other to hook around Dutch’s neck. One of Dutch’s arms slides along Arthur’s back, securing itself under Arthur’s rear and bouncing him a little harder. A louder groan bubbles up through Arthur’s throat. “Y-yes…”

Dutch finds himself working his legs to buck up into Arthur as well as bouncing him in an opposite pattern, meeting in the middle and causing Arthur to gasp almost every time.

“Y-you…” Arthur says, head tilting back after he can’t seem to get his words out correctly. “Keep going,  _ please _ , that feels so g-good…” Dutch willingly obeys the request, leaning forward just a bit to kiss Arthur. The man moans openly into Dutch’s mouth, his noises coming out in breathy pants more than anything else. “Dutch,” Arthur groans, and Dutch feels like it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard. What an unlikely thing to think, he supposes, especially after having met the man just an hour or two before, but it’s true. That voice saying his name is beyond angelic.

“Yeah,” Dutch nods, whispering against Arthur’s mouth as his lips remain parted. “Say my name jus’ like that. Keep goin’.” Arthur’s back curves towards Dutch, causing Dutch’s lips to find purchase on Arthur’s collarbone. He nips and kisses along the bone there, still keeping up as best as he can with the pattern of motion. Those moans keep him going better than coal would to any train.

“Dutch,  _ fuck _ ,” Arthur pleads, uncertain of what exactly he’s searching or asking for. All he knows is that he’s placing his hands against Dutch’s chest and pushing him to lie down. Towering over Dutch, he breathes heavily and keeps his hands splayed out, there on Dutch’s chest. One of Dutch’s hands finds itself relaxing against the mattress, the other moving to replace where Arthur’s had been moments before. Arthur’s legs are working so hard by now, keeping the man in a continuous pleasured state.

Then, Arthur suddenly cries out louder than he has during their entire encounter, a broken moan falling from his lips as his legs falter. Dutch’s hand slows as he watches Arthur pause for a moment then return to his action, this time with a different goal. Finding that spot again. Dutch takes a gamble and finds himself lucky when he thrusts his hips upwards and Arthur blurts out his name in pure euphoria. It’s followed by a sharp gulp of air, Arthur’s hands still unmoving from their concrete spots on Dutch’s chest.

“Come for me, Arthur,” Dutch groans, his hand flicking faster and faster as Arthur nears his peak. Arthur breathes shallowly and his hips move in less of a pattern and more in a frenzy of wanting to reach that feeling, nodding to Dutch and letting the majority of his moans fly freely into the air.

“I-I—” Arthur cuts himself off, his hips faltering in their movements as Dutch’s hand carries him through to the other side. “Dutch!” Arthur calls out the man’s name one last time, back straightening as he finally releases, a long-awaited feeling finally allowing itself to be known again. Dutch is gentle with Arthur, his hips moving slowly as soon as his partner is finished, but he feels his own hurriedly creeping up on him. Arthur breathes out a few babbled words before Dutch sits up, lifts Arthur off of him, and keeps the man sitting up by leaning him against Dutch’s chest. Dutch’s hand moves quickly and he shudders as his own orgasm hits him — clearly not as harshly as Arthur’s did, but he doesn’t mind that. Watching it was, well, perfect payment. Arthur clings to Dutch as they come down from their individual highs, Dutch finding himself rather tired all of a sudden.

He’s not entirely sure of what happens in the time between his being vertical and his being horizontal, lying in bed, but what he’s certain of remembering is the arms wrapped snugly — daresay, lovingly, around his waist as he hurriedly drops out of consciousness.


	4. Bright-Eyed and Bushy-Tailed

Dutch wakes up to see the blurry face of a man whom he doesn’t recognise, rather close and personal. He’s startled by this fact as soon as those features come into focus, his immediate response being to jolt away. Realising that the both of them are, in fact, without any clothing whatsoever, he tries to think back to the night before. It’s less than effective, seeing as the entire night is simply a hodgepodge conundrum of brief images. All Dutch is certain of is that this man, whoever he may be, is wrapped tightly around him, enclosing his entire body with legs and arms.

At first, he’s not sure what to do. He’s just woken up to an unknown man in a strange room — likely an inn, from the layout, with a splitting headache. The sun drifting through the window and onto the white bed sheets isn’t doing anything positive for his throbbing mind, either, but at least he’s thinking clearer than he had been the night before. He can recognise what’s a few inches in front of his nose, whereas last night was a completely different story, from what he recalls of it.

After staring at the man’s face for a few moments, he understands that he needs to make a decision. The limbs around him are binding and so welcoming, but he’ll soon be a wanted man, and he doesn’t want to drag this poor man down with him. Lifting a hand from under the sheets, Dutch pushes the bangs away from the man’s eyes and furrows his brows. For the life of him, he can’t even remember the man’s name. He’d blame himself for being a terrible lay, but he’s aware he hasn’t done anything of this calibre, at least while drunk, with anyone in a while. Moreso with someone of the male form, if he’s  _ ever _ done it before. Thinking at the moment, he’s still not able to keep his mind on the subject for very long without drifting back to the night before.

Dutch can still hear the noises the man had made beneath him, however reverberant and warped they ended up after bouncing around in his mind all night. The face of discomfort, yet plastered with a deep flush, followed by a look of pure bliss and satisfaction. That’s all he remembers, and the features are so muddled in his memory, he’s not even sure if that was  _ this _ man. They look strikingly similar, but he really can’t be sure, especially since he can’t remember something as simple as a name.

Dutch is aware of the consequences. He’ll return to camp and he’ll be berated by Molly O’Shea, his woman of sorts. Her yelling, despite being in that thick accent of hers, has always gotten on his nerves, and unfortunately, he upsets her just about as much as she does him. She simply does not interest him as much as she had when they had first met one another. Similarly to this scenario, he recalls, they’d met when Dutch was a little tipsy and Molly, a prettily-dressed barmaid at the time, happened to catch his eye. Unlike his current situation, however, he’d left their first meeting at that: nothing more than words. But because of his connection with Molly, and Molly specifically, Dutch is unable to slip away so simply. The nagging words in that voice, rolling off of that tongue, would forever haunt him.

Dragging his fingers over the man’s cheekbone, Dutch is ridiculously gentle, afraid of waking the man and further shoving himself into the rabbit hole, which he’s already at least six feet deep in, somehow. Hardly knows the man past his voice, if he could call what he remembers of it knowing.

He wonders if he could possibly stay. As crazy as it sounds, it’s not as unrealistic as it seems. Hosea and Dutch had gotten away together — granted, they were not homosexual lovers in any way, but Dutch’s reputation seems to be rather on his side. He could run away with this man who seems to care an awful lot, even if he is only sleeping. Gather a generous amount of money and live a different life than was prescribed to the both of them. Dutch watches as the man’s eyebrows twitch and his nostrils gently flare. Those lips of his, kissable as they are, pull themselves up slightly at the corners and create such a perfect smile. Dutch wants to lean forward and claim those lips with a real kiss, but something inside him keeps his reactions subtle. He doesn’t move from his position.

The man’s brows furrow and he lets out a little huff, Dutch retracting his hand when his nerves get the best of him, and lying it down on the bed in the small gap between the two of their chests. The man’s eyes slowly open and Dutch’s are there to greet them. The man’s face breaks into a stupid grin and he lifts his arm to Dutch’s shoulder.

“Mornin’, Dutch,” the man mutters, to which Dutch freezes up. Surely, the night before had been as taxing for him as it was Dutch, so why is the name a thing he remembers? Likely because he’s simply a better man than Dutch is. He can actually remember another’s name, no matter how drunk.

“Mornin’,” Dutch croaks in response, his voice breaking itself in for the first time in a several hours. He’d probably worked it enough as it was, during the night’s festivities, but he decides not to think on their actions any more than he already has. The man shifts and groans in pain, lifting an arm and gently touching his lower back.

“Jesus,” he grouses. “I’m not sure about yours, but my ass is gonna need a while.” The man looks up at Dutch with his ocean-like irises, which Dutch finds himself already adoring. “You mind if we stay here for a bit longer? You seemed to be pretty out of it last night… Probably have a pretty bad migraine.” He gently touches the back of Dutch’s head, the pain dissipating almost immediately where those fingertips touched his skull.

“Not at all,” Dutch shakes his head, to which the man smiles and pulls himself closer, his forehead against Dutch’s chest. Even this man, as supposedly rugged and tough as he is, yearns for affection. Shame he has to find it in someone who can’t remember a name through a bit of a drunken haze. Dutch draws his fingers through the man’s hair, gently stroking the slightly-matted hair that somehow, fits him in the best of ways.

It only takes a few minutes for Dutch to fall under again, despite it being after his company, and he’s comfortable, even with everything telling him not to be. He’s comfortable with this man; comfortable with himself, for once.


	5. Unexcused Absences

The slow rise and fall of his own chest is what wakes Dutch again, only this time, he’s facing the wall, and unfortunately, the sun still has the same effect on his migraine as earlier. He opens his eyes for a second, only to be blinded by the slightly-overhead sun peeking through the shutters and shining right into one of his eyes. Shutting his eyes and tilting his head, he slowly sits up in the bed. Just counting from the position of the sun, compared to earlier, it should only be a few hours later, but he’s glad when he notices the hangover has subsided just slightly with the extra rest.

Unlike earlier, he does remember what happened before he’d fallen asleep just a few hours prior, and his first thought is to look around for the man from the night before, of whom he still cannot remember the name. He supposes that the worst possible instance would be if the man simply left after Dutch had fallen asleep again, without a word. There is no warmth beside him in the bed, no tangled legs or touching skin. Nothing.

Turning his head to glance at the other pillow, he sees a dent where the man’s head would have been lying, seeing no other trace of his existence. Not a note on the bedside table, or clothes on the floor. All he sees is his own draped over the back of a chair.

“Damn,” Dutch whispers through grit teeth, lifting and sliding himself to the other side of the bed. His legs swing off of the mattress and onto the floor, but Dutch feels none the better about escaping the sheets when he stands. If he couldn’t speak to the man this morning, maybe gather some idea of the ridiculous acts he’d committed last night, the best he could’ve done for himself was stay in the bed. But now he’s crossing the floor, gently touching the fabric of his clothes and glancing them over. There is no note here either, though he doesn’t really expect one at this point. If the man had cared to leave a note of his absence, he’d’ve placed it in an obvious position.

Taking a breath, Dutch begins to pull on his clothing. He’s at a loss for thought, the only lingering questions being related to what happened the night before, or why the man left when he did. By the time he’s gotten his belt on, he hears the door open. His shirt is still hanging over the back of the chair, accompanied by his suspenders, but a single revolver is equipped from his holster as he presses his back against the wall and watches the corner, around which leads to the door.

The door shuts and Dutch watches as the man steps into the room with a paper bag in his hand, and quickly gathers a disappointed air about him after spotting the empty bed. Then, of course, he notices as Dutch returns the firearm to its holster and steps further into view. The man turns with a look of surprise on his face.

“Dutch,” he says, stepping closer and setting the bag on the bedside table. From the glassy sound it makes, he can only wonder what’s inside. “Thought you left.”

“No, as a matter of fact, I just woke up.” Dutch avoids the usage of names, hoping he can simply dodge sentences with any pointed speech until he can find another way of recognising the man’s name. He doesn’t want to simply ask, as that would be considered false-mannered of him. He shifts his weight onto one foot as he reaches for his shirt, pulling it around his shoulders and adjusting it. “You look chipper this mornin’, son, someone put a little whiskey in your coffee?” He teases halfheartedly, to which the man shakes his head and takes a seat on the bed.

“Had a bite to eat, a bath. You know, you made one  _ hell _ of a mess.”

“Me?” Dutch lets himself laugh, his head pounding at the sound bouncing around in his brain as he tugs the suspenders over his shoulders and fastens them to his belt line. “Think you got that a bit backwards, from what I remember.”

“‘From what you remember’? Were you really that drunk? And no, I ain’t got it backwards.” The man rests his elbows on his knees, leaning forward. “Not sure whether to be glad or not.” Dutch’s vest is the last item to be adorned, but the room falls silent again as they both wonder what exactly to say. Meeting on those kinds of terms was difficult to follow, to say the least. At least for Dutch, as he can’t really read what’s going on in this man’s head, and this fact is driving him crazy. After a few moments of the man staring at Dutch, he tilts his head and stands, slowly treading over to where Dutch is standing. “You even remember my name, mister?”

Dutch’s breath catches in his throat, and he pauses in his place. Whether or not he answers this correctly could decide if he sees this man again, and that weight resting so suddenly on his shoulders is frightening. He takes a breath.

“Frankly, no.” Dutch looks the man in the eyes, seeing the disappointment set back into them, harsher this time. He shakes his head and turns around, grabbing the paper bag from the side table and reaching into it. Retrieving something, he holds it out to Dutch, who takes it after a moment of contemplation. Turning it in his hand, he reads the label. It’s the miracle tonic they sell in the general store just a few buildings down, but for some reason, Arthur handing it to him, seal unbroken, is a bit more sentimental. That is…

“Bought that for you, hoped it would make you feel a bit better this mornin’. I see now that was a waste of my time.” The man snags it from Dutch’s hand again, setting it back in the bag. Dutch can hear the sound of another bottle in the bag, but decides not to mention it, still focused on the task at hand.

“You’re gonna blame me for actin’ drunk, while bein’ drunk?” Dutch furrows his brows, a new goal of repairing lost time with this man after only a few hours of knowing each other. “Really?” The man pauses as he turns around to walk away, sighing and lowering the bag. He steps to pivot around with his right foot, looking Dutch in the eyes for a moment.

“Arthur.” The man turns away, setting the bag down on a dresser as he crosses the room again. He pulls on his jacket, immediately forcing Dutch to leap to action, not wanting him to leave so soon.

“Arthur, then,” Dutch nods, stepping forward and nearing Arthur in just a few steps. His hand comes in contact with Arthur’s face, the faint scratch of stubble dancing across his palm. “Why are you in such a rush?” Arthur’s brows are pulled together tightly above his eyes, his lips in a straight line. Dutch leans forward to change this, pressing their lips together for a brief second before Arthur turns his head away and steps back towards the bag.

“Hey, you know what a mix of whiskey and chloride of lime makes?” Arthur asks, back turned to Dutch. His hands are hard at work doing something, but Dutch doesn’t think to look around his shoulders, only wondering why he’d stepped away so soon. Hadn’t Arthur enjoyed the night before?

“Uh,” Dutch says as more of a confused noise. “No, ‘fraid not, son. Why?”

“You taught me a few things about talkin’ to people last night, and really, I think I’ll use those lessons a lot where I’m goin’.” Dutch’s eyebrows knit together in a stronger confusion, his head tilted slightly as he listens. This feels like a trap, but he’s sure he can trust Arthur. “ _ I _ think I ought ta’ teach you somethin’ before we part ways.”

“We don’t need to part ways, Arthur, if that is what you’re fretting about.” Dutch urges.

“Chloroform,” Arthur turns around and says, before quickly reaching for the back of Dutch’s neck and shoving a cloth, doused in the mixture, against his nose. Dutch’s eyes go wide and he sees Arthur, a look of pain and sadness on his face, before he feels his revolver being pulled from its holster and bashed against the side of his head. His vision blurs and he feels himself falling. Sounds echoing, he hears Arthur say one more thing before he feels the floor against his back. “This woulda happened anyway, Dutch. Try not to take it too personally.”

He’s not sure what happens in between the time the cloth was first shoved in his face and when he actually fell out of consciousness, but he’s certain there was at least a few more words from Arthur. He’s not really certain of anything, at this point.


	6. Paid in Gold

If Dutch had thought Arthur disappearing then was the worst possible outcome, he’s very unhappy to say he was horribly wrong. His head spinning, even more than it had been before, is a clear sign of that.

He finds himself in a chair, and at first his mind panics, but a slow, hazed glance around at his surroundings leaves him to notice that he’s still in the same room, and alone again, at that. He’s unsure of how long it’s been, but he’s got a metallic taste in his mouth, and his throat is incredibly sore. Will Arthur return again, or has he finally had enough?

Dutch groans as he tries to sit up, the muscles in his back aching and screaming for him to stop moving. He feels an even greater pounding in his head, forcing him to take a moment and sit back into his chair. A slow glance at the window shows Dutch that it’s been hours, so long that it’s dark outside, and the only light is the light in the room. He glares at the light, his head slowly lolling to the side. There, on a table to the right of him, he sees the bottle of miracle tonic from earlier, its curved corners and label desperately shouting ‘drink me’. He slowly reaches for it, the edges of his vision fading between shades of green and purple.

Dutch breaks the seal and pulls weakly on the cork, tossing it across the room as soon as it’s freed from the bottle’s neck. He tips his head back, despite the defiance from the muscles in his neck, and downs one gulp after the other, until the sour liquid is completely gone. Lowering the bottle from his mouth, he watches as the room gains a slight yellow tint for a moment, and the pain in his back dissipates. Sitting up, however slowly, he sets the bottle aside. The clunk of the glass bottle tapping the table is muffled this time, making him glance over and see the piece of paper. Finally, he supposes, Arthur has decided to leave a word of resolved farewell.

Setting the bottle slightly to the side, Dutch adjusts in his seat and lifts the note. On the outside, in a rather elegant script, is written ‘Dutch’. Unfolding the piece of parchment, he leans against the back of the chair and focuses on the words through his migraine, unfortunately still forcing him to hear his own pulse in his ears.

‘I’ll be completely frank with you. I know who you are, Dutch van der Linde, and I know what kinda company you keep. It weren’t too hard to guess, and it ain’t gonna be hard to remember. Not when you look exactly like the feller in the posters. Saw the resemblance when I bought the tonic — speaking of, make sure you drink what’s in that little bottle. I know how much of a bitch the morning after can be.

In other news, I snagged that cash from your pocket. Thought it was a fitting amount for my trouble with the tonic, the bath and everything else. That’s not even the most of it, either, because I still gotta go get Lenny out of that goddamn jail cell one way or another. Let’s just say the rest of this cash is the bribe for my silence, and keep last night between you and me.

Arthur’

Dutch stares at the pencil scrawled across the paper, and the signature at the bottom. He’s not sure exactly what to think about the message, it being so much to process after the awakening he’s had. Arthur knows? How much, exactly? Clearly enough to know he’s in danger of being associated with a criminal.

Reaching into his pocket to check for the money, just in case, he finds it empty. Shaking his head, he stands. Had he known this would happen, he’s not certain whether or not he would’ve gone through with it. While he’s been knocked unconscious, there’s no physical damage aside the pounding headache; he’s been stolen from, but the amount he was carrying was easily stolen from someone else anyhow. There are really only two negatives among a world of positives, and he cannot be happier about it. As a result of the night before, his eyes have been opened to a whole realm of new possibilities, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to see the male body in the same light again.

Crossing the room, he checks for the rest of his belongings and decides that he should be heading on his way after all of that. He hopes Arthur has paid for the room and hasn’t left Dutch with the responsibility when he’s empty-handed, but from the tone of the note, the man seems to be pure of heart in most instances, even while being cruel in the others. Before he leaves, he steps back to the table and folds the note again, tucking it safely — though clearly not as safe as he’d hoped, seeing as Arthur had taken his cash so simply — in his pocket.

As he walks out of the room, he feels his head pound with every step he takes. Even through the noise, though, he begins to wonder if he could possibly ask around for Arthur. Perhaps he’d left just a few minutes before Dutch gained consciousness, however unlikely, and the people around town could assist him in finding the man with whom he’d only shared one night, despite his longing for that number to increase by several more. Then, he remembers that two men sharing a room, as many people’s minds would immediately stray to the worst case scenario, is strictly prohibited and considered an act of religious and humane treachery.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, he releases his white-knuckled grip on the bannister and moves towards the door.

“Ah, sir, I was wondering when you’d finally show,” Dutch turns around to face the innkeeper, a smug smile on his face. “Quite a bit of noise you two made last night. Stirred up quite the fuss.” Before Dutch, delayed as he is, can even think to respond or plead for the man’s silence, a glint of light flashes from the man’s hand as he lifts a gold bar from a drawer. “Don’t worry. I won’t say a word.” Setting it back inside, he pats the drawer face and looks back at Dutch. “Though, I doubt you’ll like me tellin’ you that he also asked me not to disclose his location or any pointers in said direction.” Dutch deflates, sighing out and leaning against the desk.

“Is there anything you _can_ tell me then, sir? He left without so much as a word, I… I’m almost worried about him.” Dutch admits, his head loosely dropping forward to hang there as the man responds with what he’d expected.

“‘Fraid not, sir. All I can say is that he looked to be perfectly fine when he left with that other feller. There anythin’ else I can do for you?” Dutch pauses and lifts his head, though not enough to look the man in the eyes. Had Arthur mentioned anyone else? He had, hadn’t he? After a moment, it comes back to him, in both writing and in spoken word. Lenny, the boy he was looking for last night. Arthur wasn’t kidding when he said he’d need the money, what with the boy being unaccompanied and possibly causing a mess… The whole ordeal makes him wince. A shit world they lived in, but at least it’s a little better than it used to be.

“No, I think that’s all I can ask of you. I thank you kindly for your hospitality,” he stands, waving a hand at the man as he moves towards the door and steps out into the cool night air.


	7. Home Again, Home Again

The breath of wind softly billowing against Dutch’s face is calming, and after the day he’s had, it’s not difficult to see why. He’s almost glad he hadn’t woken up closer to midday, seeing that even the moon is brighter than it usually is. He doesn’t spare a glance up at it as he walks along the dirt road, not wanting to tilt his head any more than he already has.

Pushing his way past the general store, despite how much he wants to snag another bottle of the miracle tonic, Dutch spots the Count and slowly approaches him. Patting the stallion’s shoulder with his right hand, he tugs on the reins tied around a post and pulls himself up. It takes a moment for him to finally will himself forward, dreading the motion imminently going to be set on his body.

Pulling the reins back just so, he takes a breath and brings them down. The Count moves forward at a moderate pace as they leave Valentine, and Dutch silently eyes the patrons tending to their daily tasks. As soon as he’s out of town, signified by the sign, he rides a bit faster, leaning forward and moving with the horse to alleviate some of the pain in his head. It works somewhat effectively, but the constant movement of his legs is also taking a toll on his tired body.

As he moves along the all-too-familiar pathways, his mind is so occupied by the pattern that when he actually arrives at camp, he’s found that he’s unprepared. What will he say to Hosea? To Molly? And what of the others? Them having been, for the most part, without a proper leader for upwards of twenty-four hours. What could he possibly say?

“Dutch!” Calls Abigail, who rushes over with a large, relieved smile on her face. “You were gone so long, we were all so worried — Hosea was lookin’ for you, we —“ Miss Grimshaw appears from behind a tent, walking out with that disappointed, motherly scowl on her face. Dutch can almost picture the finger wag before it happens.

“And  _ where _ have you been, mister? You’re supposed to be here runnin’ the camp, you can’t go scamperin’ off like that! You all are so irresponsible.” Pulling himself down from the Count, Dutch hitches the stallion and walks closer to everyone, slowly gathering near the edge of the camp.

“Alright, alright,” Dutch raises his hands a bit, wanting the silence of the fire crackling for a few moments. The migraine has not gotten better in the slightest, and it will continue to worsen with the uproarious amount of noise from several people. “It’s not the longest I’ve been gone, you all don’t need to worry as much as you did.”

“But we were all so  _ worried _ about’cha, Dutch. Especially after we lost John up in the mountains, prolly froze to death…” Dutch looks over to see Micah leaning his weight on one foot,  as he always is. The man’s gaze is on Abigail, who is visibly flattened by the reminder. Dutch frowns. He doesn’t need this right now.

“Micah, we don’t need this right now. She doesn’t need the reminder, none of us do. It just wasn’t a good situation.” Micah shrugs his shoulder, raising a hand to wave the group off as he mumbles and walks away.

“A bad situation, which you only made worse.” Dutch turns to see Molly, her arms crossed just below her bust and an irritated expression on her face. “Why didn’t you come back yesterday, your  _ majesty? _ ” She sneers, and Dutch sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Out with another one of your whores?”

“I  _ am _ sorry, Miss O’Shea, I don’t feel well enough to deal with your nonsense right now.” He steps past her, trying to excuse himself from the others after several people in the group step away to avoid the impending fight.

“What happened to when you called me by my name? My name is Molly.  _ Molly, _ not ‘Miss O’Fuckin’-Shea!’” Dutch shuts his eyes as he saunters back to his tent, knowing by now that he won’t be able to sleep this off, and no amount of verbal alleviation will change Molly’s goal of starting shit she can’t win. “Where were you!” Molly shouts, and Dutch turns around to glare at her.

“I was in town. Is that an issue, Miss  _ Molly O’Shea? _ ” He hisses, and she mirrors his glower for a moment before harshly shoving him backwards into the tent. She tails him for only a step, holding the flap of the tent up and jeering.

“Get some sleep, you bastard. I don’t understand why I even deal with you anymore, Dutch van der Linde.” She drops the fabric, sealing the warmth of the tent inside. Dutch mumbles a few words under his breath, sitting down on the cot with his head in his hands. The stationary position gives him a bit of clarity, but the stress of the situation is almost overpowering the assistance of his inert state.

While he knows precisely why Molly stays, he doesn’t understand why he doesn’t force her hand into leaving. She says she loves him, but in general, Dutch doesn’t believe her for longer than a few moments when she says it. If she loved him, she’d stop being so selfish. If she loved him, she’d want what’s best for him, and would let go if it came to that point. If she loved him… he lets out a heavy breath, relaxing against his knees for a moment. His posture is horrible, but after everything in his life so far, he’s not sure if he cares about a little alignment issue.

He doesn’t stand from the cot to remove the clothes from his upper half, simply setting them aside and gently lying against the thin padded cot. All of the money he’s spent on Molly, and now he can’t afford to get all of the camp members something softer to sleep on. He almost wonders if sleeping in the inn bed for the rest of his life would be better.

Despite his thoughts, his headache wins, and he drops out of consciousness faster than even he’d expected.


	8. Trouble In Paradise

The next morning is quiet. After Dutch’s disappearance, it seems as though the entire camp went into a frenzied state, and it was only alleviated after he made an appearance again. Everyone has returned to their work, and Dutch feels better about the whole situation. So long as Arthur, supposing he would tell anyone, doesn’t let anyone know about their actions the previous night, it should be alright. They can just forget it happened, despite the knot in Dutch’s stomach only making itself known when he thinks about Arthur. About his face, his voice, his willingness to explore the unknown, his body: a man’s, which shouldn’t entice him as much as it does…

Dutch shifts uncomfortably in his seat at the game table, idly wasting time there. His chest is tight, and he simply cannot stop thinking about the encounter with that man. It’s wrong to be thinking on this as much as he is, but it seems impossible to stop now.

“Dutch,” he looks up to see Hosea nearing the table, a hand skimming over the back of the chair opposite Dutch before being occupied by his close companion. “I’d been waiting for you to show up last night, fell asleep in the process…” He lets out a little laugh, Dutch smiling.

“Don’t worry, Hosea. I was  _ fine _ , and despite what others may say, the night was rather uneventful.” He catches himself lying through his teeth, but he makes no attempt of correcting it. He’s been doing this for long enough that it just comes naturally at this point.

“Was it? Ah, well I had expected a bit more of a story, Dutch. You have always been one for excitement while drunk. Perhaps old age has finally caught up with you.” Dutch laughs, nodding and gently pulling a knife from his belt. Stabbing it down into the table, he gives a competitive glance at Hosea.

“You wanna bet, old man? See just who has  _ really  _ gotten older through the years?” Hosea glances at the knife for a moment before looking back up and nodding with a determined smile on his face.

“Take your turn.” Hosea leans forward in his chair, elbows against the edge of the table. Dutch smirks, tugging the knife from its spot and stretching his palm out on the wooden surface.

“We’re goin’ for a dollar,” Dutch announces to Hosea before bringing the blade down over his fingers. He’s quick to finish three laps before he runs out of time, flourishing the last stab with a little flip, catching it by the handle and pressing it down into the wood. Hosea smiles and snags the knife from the table again, his palm outstretched. While making an attempt to show off by being noticeably faster, he unintentionally fails to lift the blade enough and it catches a knuckle. Hosea pulls his hand back and shakes it to alleviate the pain, Dutch simply sitting back in his chair with his arms crossed and a smug smile on his face. The time runs out before Hosea can make it to three laps, and he places the knife in Dutch’s hand with a look of resentment.

This time, before Dutch can make it to a fourth lap, Hosea pipes up.

“So, who was that man you were with night before last?” This causes Dutch to slip up and stab into the flesh of his thumb, eyebrows furrowing at the pain. He drops the knife and hisses, looking at the wound, blood beginning to bead up at the edge.

“No one really, he…” Dutch pauses unintentionally. “He and I met that night, hit it off, played some chess.” The night begins to slowly come back to him, scenes of the chess games slowly fading in and out of his mind.

“And then went to the inn, is that right?” Hosea picks up the knife and starts the next round while Dutch gathers himself and tries to figure out exactly what it is he wants to say without incriminating himself. He has half a mind to just spill it, to admit he made a mistake and say that he was drunk; he wasn’t thinking correctly, but the rest of him wants to keep it a secret. As if avoiding a confession will make it any less real. He knows it won’t, because the tightness in his chest, the knot in his stomach, and the disappointment in his heart are all far too real to be a simple mistake. He and Arthur met for a reason, and Dutch doesn’t think he could even touch on the idea any more than a quick thought.

“Right,” Dutch nods, eyes trained on Hosea’s hands as one stabs the end of the knife into the table between every finger. “We… at least from what I remember,” he catches the lie before it even leaves his mouth. “We hardly spoke a word before we both passed out. Just… took us an extra day to sleep it off, that’s why I came back last night rather than earlier in the day.” Hosea glances up as soon as his turn is over, having gotten a fourth lap in.

“Dutch, you don’t really think I’m that stupid, do you? After all this time, you think I can’t see when you’re lying right to my face?” Dutch freezes, eyes locked on Hosea’s hands as they slide the knife over to him. He’s not sure what to say any longer to avoid the truth. Hosea has known him longer than anyone else, so there’s no possible way of lying to the man without being caught red-handed. Besides, he’s sure Hosea knows what happened anyway, after the man had likely been watching through his sobriety as Dutch clearly began their little bet.

“Look, Hosea, I—” Just as he begins to explain himself, a note is slammed down on the table in front of him. He recognises those hands, ridiculously pampered and perfect as they always are, and he recognises his name on the front of it, in Arthur’s script.

“What is this?” She demands, and Dutch moves to take the note from under her hand before she lifts it off of the table and rushes to unfold it. “‘Make sure you drink what’s in that little bottle’? A tonic, Dutch? Did you need a little extra  _ energy? _ ” Her accusations force Dutch into a silence. It feels as if he’s unable to open his mouth and plead his case. “‘Snagged that cash from your pocket’, ‘trouble with the tonic, the bath and everything else’?” She just continues reading the note, surely drawing the attention of others in the process. “Oh, and that’s not  _ all, _ is it, Dutch? ‘Let’s just say the rest of this cash is the bribe for my silence, and keep last night between you and me’?” Dutch lowers his head in an attempt to visibly ignore her. If he stays quiet, perhaps she’ll leave him be, and he won’t have to deal with this now.

He should’ve burned the note. Torn it up and thrown it into the lake, or let the Count shit on it, so no one would dare touch it. But he didn’t, did he? And now, she’s reading it aloud, and she’ll likely announce the name “Arthur” to everyone in the camp. They’ll all know, and even his closest family will shun him, leaving him with little to no choice about leaving.

“And you just  _ had _ to scratch out her name, didn’cha?” This is the question which catches Dutch off-guard. In the time he’d seen the note and returned, there had been no attempt at scratching out the name. He looks up at her again, holding his hand out for her to give it to him. Despite his expectations of her acting otherwise, she places the note in his hand with a beyond-disinterested expression in her eyes.

Sure enough, as he lowers it to his view, there are vulgar scratches made in pen over the name, making it impossible to read. He’s not quite sure what to say, only taking a breath. Who could’ve done this, and when? Molly sure as hell wouldn’t’ve, she probably would’ve wanted to flaunt the male’s name in his face for the rest of his life.

Dutch peers at Hosea, who has a look of knowing on his face. There’s a pain in Dutch’s heart, growing quickly and forcing his entire body to hurt. Almost as if his blood is now pumping snake venom into his veins, and he can do nothing to stop it. With both of them looking at him so keenly, he wonders if he should’ve come back to camp in the first place. Any random civilian wouldn’t’ve given him a sideways glance, even less pulled the note with the signature mysteriously scribbled out, from his pocket. Even if he were to blurt out about having affairs with another man, he doubts any one of them would really incriminate him for  _ that _ reason. After all, they’ve got so much dirt on him for other things, they don’t need another. Enough of them want to see him swing as it is, and they would happily push any other criminal aside to witness it.

“Listen, Molly, I…” He hesitates for a moment, hoping someone will step in and change the subject before he digs himself any deeper into this pit. Looking back down at the note, he lets out a small sigh. He doesn’t want to continue and lose more of the faith his family barely has anymore.

“ _Well_ , if it ain’t our two problematic lovers?”


	9. Rosy Cheeks

“Micah,” Dutch announces and folds the note, tucking it into his pocket. Micah steps around to enter the conversation, leaning on the table between Hosea and Molly, ignoring Hosea and staring directly at Dutch.

“Trouble in paradise with our happy relationship?” He teases, Dutch scowling a bit and standing. He’s glad, however silently, that Micah had stepped in when he did. Molly’s arms are crossed across her chest again, a pout on her face as she glares holes through Micah, but Dutch couldn’t be happier with the circumstances. Micah catches the look from Molly and grins, looking her directly in the eyes. “I’d say you’re undressing me with how hard you’re staring, but I know you’d much rather like the real show than anything imaginary.” Micah raises his hands to his sides, Molly scoffing and backing away.

“Like I’d enjoy doing a thing with you, you pig,” she passes a sideways glance to Dutch before shrugging her shoulders passive-aggressively. “At the very least I’d get more action.” And with that, she’s sauntered off to pout somewhere else. Dutch slowly takes a breath, watching as Hosea and Micah exchange a silence glance, almost as if they’re having a brief conversation between their minds, inaudible to Dutch and anyone else around. They look back up at Dutch at roughly the same time, Micah piping up before Hosea is able to.

“ _So,_ Boss, I got us a bank job.” Micah tosses his arms over Dutch’s shoulders, holding a hand out in front of them for Dutch to visualise. “Picture this: sixty grand in our pockets. Bank’s not too heavily guarded, but it ain’t a government-run sorta thing, so cops wouldn’t be an issue…” Micah grins, turning them both away from Hosea to meander in one direction or another.

“Where?” Dutch questions, looking down to Micah.

“It’s up on the other side of the mountains. Should only take us a day at most to get there.” Micah steps away from him to use his hands a little more, get Dutch more involved in the whole idea. “We get up there, sneak in. They won’t even know we were ever there, and if they do, we bring plenty o’ firepower. Bang. We’re in, we’re out, we’re gone. Sound like a plan, big man?” Dutch glances back towards Hosea, finding the man to have walked away as soon as Micah had stolen Dutch away from their conversation.

“I’m… I won’t say I’m not intrigued, but I do think I should speak to Hosea about it, get his take on the whole plan before things end up like they did in Blackwater.” Micah pipes up again, a confidence of a thousand men in his tone.

“Nothin’ to brood on, my friend. It’ll be nothin’ _like_ Blackwater. And we won’t lose a single cent this time as long as we stick to your _plan,_ which I assume you are already laying out in that mind of yours?” Micah seems to be poking him in the side about this, and Dutch has only just heard about it. The compliance is definitely nice, especially accompanied by the faith and honest commendations on his part. Perhaps Micah is right. Surely in the past, he’s been more than reckless, but maybe this time is a bit different. Maybe this time they’ll get out of it, and everyone will still be living.

“Alright,” Dutch nods, earning a smile out of Micah.

“Perfect. Shall we?” Dutch, in the position he his, believes they should leave now. With Molly investigating further and further, Dutch is not sure if he should be around for when she finds out. She’ll have his head stuck on a pike before he can say a word, and she’ll use it as a means against him.

“Yes.” Dutch tilts his head towards their horses, moving in that direction with Micah, who pulls out a gun and starts checking it for any damage or obvious signs of needing immediate management. When he finds nothing, he spins it around on his finger and drops it back in his holster, a confident smirk on his face. Dutch calls out to the family and tells them of their plans to be back within a few days, tugging himself up onto the Count and waiting for Micah to mount up as well.

Tilly is there and she smiles, wishing them both luck and telling Dutch that she will let everyone know. Dutch smiles and puts two fingers to his brow, pulling them away as a salute of understanding before pulling on the reins and riding off behind Micah.

The two of them stop to camp when the sun begins to set, about halfway there by the time they do. Dutch stares out at the sunset, Micah having spotted a beautiful area on the top of a hill, luckily with a gentle downward slope on the other side. Dutch’s legs are over the other side of the hill as he watches the sky slowly turn to a dark purple.

“Should be the eighth wonder of the world, eh?” Micah moves to sit beside him as soon as the fire is at a steady size. “Well, ninth. You ever heard about Saint Denis?” Dutch glances over for only a second, idly shaking his head before returning his gaze to the rose sky. He leans on his knees, hopelessly lost in the colour of it. He’s seen it about a thousand times in his existence, but the slow shift from a cloudy bright blue to a starry dark violet is more than worth watching every time it’s available. Somehow, for some reason this time, Dutch finds himself appreciating it more than he thinks he ever has.

He wonders why the colours remind him of Arthur. If anything, they should remind him of Molly, the woman with fiery hair and a fitting personality. The woman he’s known for years and had been courting in Blackwater before all of the mess came around, and they lost their gathered fortune in the process of moving north. The woman who stole his heart faster than he’d ever expected anyone to, especially after Annabelle.

The simple thought of her name brings her smile to his memory and he lowers his head in a mix of despair and humility, aware Micah is speaking but not listening to a word of it. He’s got more important things to speak about than a city, especially one in the midst of mechanising and replacing people.

The memory of Colm shooting her right in front of him plagues his mind. He remembers the tears in her eyes, the pure terror showing through her quivering chin and severely distressed expression. Her mouth had been covered, but had it not been, he feels as if she would’ve been begging for her life, all the while criticising him for it being all his fault. He shot Colm’s brother, but watching that bullet go through Annabelle’s head was far more traumatising to him than a none-too-happy brotherly bond being broken by someone considered a friend.

Taking a breath and looking back up at the sunset, his mind returns to Arthur. No part of the man should be related to a sunset, but Dutch can’t help imagining what it would be like to lie under the stars and simply exist with Arthur. To be free and unrestricted is only a dream, though, and is never going to come true for either of them. Dutch will probably never be able to stare into those gorgeous blue eyes under the light of a sunset, if he ever gets to again.

Perhaps it’s the flush which covered the entirety of Arthur’s body during their one and only night together, that the sunset reminds him of. The rosy hues are perfectly matched to the man’s face, and he can almost picture the gradient tinting Arthur’s entire body a beautiful red.

“Boss?” Micah asks, waving a hand in front of the man’s face to catch his attention. “Think I lost you at the whole police business thing. You plannin’ ahead, or somethin’? Don’t blame ya. Gotta work hard if we ever want to get anything from that place.” Dutch shakes his head, lowering his eyes, unable to look at the colours anymore without imagining that night. He has to let it fall behind him, let it shift into the past.

“No, just thinking. I uh, I think I’ll get some shut-eye. Big day tomorrow.” Dutch pushes himself up from his spot, bidding a short goodnight to Micah and moving to lie down on his bedroll. He’s faced away from the setting sun, almost finished in its movements by now. The stretched shadow of his body is the last image he sees before fading out of consciousness, the thought of Arthur still twirling his mind around, dizzying it enough to the point of falling.


	10. Creede Bank

“So we’re gonna slip in midday. Heard there was a lunch break about noon; everyone leaves the money unmanned, those dumbasses won’t even know we were ever there.” Micah rides quickly along the trail, Dutch following just to his left and slightly behind. There’s a reluctance in his mind, feeling as if this is too easy. This shouldn’t be as simple as it seems, and with Micah, it usually isn’t. Dutch stays moderately quiet, a worry scratching the back of his mind for the rest of their time on horseback.

They arrive in town quarter-till noon, judging by the pocketwatch Dutch pulls out of his vest pocket and pops open for a brief moment. He and Micah slow to a stop behind the bank, Micah spotting a door and clicking his tongue as he moves to return the binoculars to his saddlebag.

“Well, Creede, all that gold minin’ did you well, now it’s time for us to take our slice of the pay,” Micah mutters to himself, that everlasting complacent smile still plastered to his face. Dutch surveys the area as they wait, camouflaged slightly by the treeline. “Promised it won’t be anythin’ like Blackwater, Boss, so we better be cautious.” Micah’s gaze is on Dutch as he lifts his mask to his face and looks back at the bank.

Just as Dutch is fastening the tie around the nape of his neck, he spots a group of men walking through the back door. They all look to be moderately aged, meaning that their reaction time could either be that of a frightened child’s or a haggard drunk’s. While he hopes for the latter, he knows to expect the former and holds up his hand, ordering Micah to hold on and wait for his signal. Hopping off of his horse, he sneaks a look at Micah, who is fastening his satchel over his shoulder and following Dutch to the ground.

The group of men stand and talk for a few minutes before splitting, walking in opposite directions to their horses and riding off. As soon as they’re out of sight, the town looks surprisingly vacant. No other horses are seen, and there aren’t any other people around. Dutch nods to Micah and they proceed forward. Both of them are keenly watching their surroundings, turning their backs to the bank as soon as they’re close enough to take cover there. Dutch silently keeps watch as Micah skims the area once and moves to work the lock open. It doesn’t take too long, but Dutch’s worry steadily grows as he has to wait. Looking back at Micah’s hands working the handle, he hisses for the man to hurry up. He’s taking too long; they’ll be caught long before gathering any money at this rate.

Then the door clicks open and Micah pushes into the back room, scanning for anyone and proceeding. Dutch follows suit, pointing for Micah to take one room while he takes the other, adjacent from the one Micah had been told to check. Dutch tugs at the handle, finding it unlocked.

This is the first thing that sets him off from the whole mission completely, taking a step back and wondering if there’s anyone in the room waiting for him. Looking over his shoulder, he sees Micah diving straight into the room and clearly spotting a safe, from the joyous grin playing his eyes. Gaze returning to his own door, he pushes it open and pulls a revolver from its holster. His steps are silent as he enters, only seeing the safe and moving forward with caution. Placing his right ear to the metal, he listens for the subtle clicks.

Spinning the dial slowly, he works through the first and second numbers before hearing a different click from his left ear. Freezing in his place, he hears a voice.

“Back away from the safe, you won’t get shot— at least not right now.”

He realises then that he’d been so focused on the numbers that he’d left the door unchecked for several moments, allowing this man entry unbeknownst to Dutch, whoever it may be. Raising his hands away from the dial, he slowly moves to turn around and stand. The gun’s barrel is placed to his forehead almost immediately after he turns to face the man, eyes focused on those features. If it may be an O’Driscoll, he wants to know and shoot the bastard before he has time to do the favour for Dutch. But it’s not. Not even close.

“Arthur,” Dutch puffs out a breath, a look of utterly distraught confusion on his face. His mouth opens and closes in different shapes for a moment, sure Arthur is unable to see his facial movements from under the mask. The man is so emotionless; unfeeling. He looks exhausted and sad, even more so than he had the night they’d met.

“Van der Linde.”

“How did you—“ Dutch is cut off by a gunshot from the other room, Arthur jolting in his spot when it reverberates against the walls.

“We’ve got company, Boss!” Micah shouts, another gunshot following quickly. The sound rings throughout the bank, followed by the sound of something heavy hitting the floor. Dutch can hear Micah’s laughter, a disgusting tone to it. “Scratch that.  _ Had _ company.” Arthur’s face contorts into a snarl, whipping around and pointing his gun out the door.

Dutch isn’t sure why, but he doesn’t lift his own gun while Arthur’s back is turned. Not his knife, or any weapon. He simply stands. He has no intention of hurting Arthur. His hand lifts the revolver only to set it back into its holster.

“You’re dead, you son of a bitch!” Arthur shouts and rushes out, Dutch moving to the doorframe to keep a visual. Micah is sat behind a desk opposite Arthur, avoiding the gunshots. He watches this all play out, Micah not moving up to fire a shot quite yet. Arthur drops to his knees in the doorway of the other room after firing quite a few bullets into the wall just above the desk’s edge, and as Dutch nears, he sees Arthur holding a darker man, slack in his arms. As Dutch nears, he can almost hear the name “Lenny” before Micah barks at him to get going, but Dutch makes no attempt at moving. Micah moves to the door, reiterating and threatening to leave him behind if he doesn’t come along.

Dutch shakes his head, Micah groaning and wishing him a sarcastic goodbye before shutting the door behind him and sprinting off to his horse. Dutch’s eyes are stuck on the boy’s face, the expressionless features staring off into the nothingness of the unknown.

“Why are you still here,” Arthur growls, heavy emotion swinging in and out of his tone. Dutch slowly kneels, eyes still trained on the boy.

“Lenny?” Dutch asks, and Arthur hesitates for several beats. He can read it in Arthur’s movements, being just to the left of the man’s back, that he wants to tell. Wants to grieve and share the pain of loss with another, wail and be completely hysterical, but he knows he won’t. He can’t afford to anymore.

There’s a deliberate nod from Arthur, concise and as emotionless as possible. Dutch lets out a sigh. He’s never been too good at assisting with others’ mourning, but he feels as if it is called for in this circumstance. He and Arthur barely know each other, yet Dutch feels like he’s known Arthur his entire life. There’s no reason for it, but it’s truly how he feels. Moving forward a bit, he shifts to his knees beside Arthur and watches as the man’s fingers slowly tread along the side of Lenny’s face, along his shirt, and down to the stain of red where the bullet had entered his stomach.

“He mean a lot to you?” Dutch is unsure of what to say, but begins with something simple. Something he hopes will not have him unconscious on the floor after just a moment. The threat of Arthur slowly evaporates as Arthur’s shoulders slump and he pulls Lenny closer to his chest.

“Yes,” he answers simply, lowering his head to lean gently against the side of Lenny’s face. His shoulders raise for a brief moment as he takes a shaky breath in. “‘bout the closest friend I have…” Arthur’s hands shake as they pull Lenny away from his chest again. “Closest friend I had.”

Dutch takes a slow breath, a ridiculous worry that the law will be on them within moments passing over him, but feeling no draw to run. His only thoughts are on Arthur. Helping Arthur through this unbearable pain.

“S’pose this is better than a jail cell,” Arthur mutters, more to himself and Lenny than the other man in the room, “inn’it, kid?” Dutch can see a tremble in Arthur’s chest, a breath passing through slightly parted lips almost as if he’s laughing, and a glint of light illuminates a falling tear. The dot of salty water soaks quickly into Lenny’s shirt, and Arthur lifts a hand, however bloody, to swiftly wipe across his eyes.

“Will you bury him?” Dutch is quiet, a deceiving pain in his chest from how much he cares to help. He feels an ache, a burning desire to see a true, happy smile on Arthur’s face again, but he knows that will not come any time soon. Men like Arthur aren’t truly happy very often, as Dutch has learned from their first chance encounter.

“Yes.”

“Where?” Dutch slowly moves closer, trying to get a better look at the boy. Arthur doesn’t move, a sign of an increase in trust, however slight. After all, Dutch hadn’t been the one to put a bullet through the boy’s chest, but he’s affiliated with the man who did. A tiny, sad smile works its way onto Arthur’s lips for a moment before he sucks in air through his teeth and rubs the back of his hand over his eyes again.

“There’s a place out in the middle of nowhere. Peaceful.” Arthur chokes for a moment, swallowing sharply before continuing. “Far up here in the mountains, too steep to build near. Sees the sunset every day.” Arthur stares at Lenny’s face as he speaks, gently reaching up to pull the boy’s eyes shut. “Surprisingly warm for where it is. Got a clean stream down the middle of it.” He goes quiet for a moment, reminiscing about the events, seemingly so far in the past by now. “We marched up the side of the mountain one time, just because we were close and he wanted to watch the sunset. He’d pick it over a sunrise anyday. I was the other way around, so we just sat and talked. Fell asleep for a while, but he woke me up to see it.” The look in Arthur’s eyes as he gazes at Lenny with such longing, pains Dutch in the worst way. “Wish I coulda done him better. He didn’t deserve it.”

A silence falls over them, Arthur lifting his hand to rub harder at his eyes, almost as if he’s trying to keep the tears from falling. Dutch reaches and places a gentle hand on Arthur’s right shoulder, running a thumb over the fabric.

“I told him about that mistake we made,” Arthur speaks again just moments after the movement has been made.

“Mistake?” Dutch sounds appalled and frankly, hurt. “I’m sorry, but I happen to disagree.”

“Why? We were drunk, and we made poor decisions,” Arthur sighs. “It’s just not right. Two men shouldn’t be together, even if…” he shakes his head and lowers it, unable to truly go on. “I don’t know.”

“We were drunk, Arthur.” Dutch reiterates, leaning a bit closer and trying to urge Arthur into seeing it from his perspective. In reality, why should it be an issue? It’s unorthodox, yes, but the thought of Arthur makes him glad that he’s still existing. It’s only taken him a few days to notice this, in comparison to Annabelle, with whom took at least a few months. “Why should it be a mistake? Because the law disagrees?” Dutch whispers, shaking his head. “I know, I’m not a man of the law, ‘bout as far as you can get from one, but… there has to be some truth to my nonsense.”

There is a pregnant pause between the two of them. Arthur’s thumb has stopped in its habitual stroking over Lenny’s cheekbone, and Dutch begins to move away from Arthur after the first long moments of silence. Arthur raises his head.

“Will you come with me to bury him, Dutch?”


	11. Tricky Silences

It takes less than a moment for Dutch to make his decision. He doesn’t care if the gang back at camp worries, and he doesn’t care whether or not Micah will make it back. There’s nothing more important to him now than helping Arthur, a man who, however maudlin, had put his faith in Dutch and blindly stepped into the tar-black depths of uncertainty with him. They are without a lantern, and the only thing they have is the connection of their hands, but Dutch feels as if it will be alright, as long as they stay together.

The night they shared would seem inconsequential from any outsider’s perspective, but Dutch sees it as it truly is. They both experienced something brand new, with a stranger, that night, and Dutch doesn’t feel that he’s the same man any longer. Granted, he still has his morals and still longs for his followers to trust him as they should, but he thinks differently now. There’s a feather-light pressure on his chest when he’s around Arthur that feels just perfect enough to make him stay.

Perhaps the gun coming in contact with his head finally spun it around backwards, and now he’s unable to think right.

“Yes,” Dutch nods, dropping his arm from Arthur’s shoulder after a few moments and slowly standing. He crosses to the room he’d been discovered in, moving to the safe and kneeling beside it. Placing his ear next to the mechanism, he finally hears the lock click open and tugs on the metal door. Inside, there is far from much. He lifts a clip of five dollars from a shelf, another from elsewhere, and a ten from inside of a small drawer. Pushing documents aside to see if there is any more, he finds that they — well,  _ he _ , by now, has gotten very little out of this for what took place.

Lifting himself from his knees, he gently pushes the door shut and spins the dial to scramble it. Tucking the cash into a pocket, he steps back out into the main room. Arthur is there, slowly lifting Lenny from the floor. It doesn’t look like Arthur is troubled by the physical weight of the man, but rather the emotional weight. Even for Dutch, it feels like he’s lost someone, and he’s never met the boy before. Dutch passes him and walks into the room Micah had taken, gingerly stepping over the pool of red in the doorway.

He doesn’t find much here, either, which irritates him to no end, but at the very least, it brings his total up to sixty dollars. Exiting the doorway and avoiding the blood on the floor again, he moves to open the door for Arthur and waits there as the man carefully passes through the threshold into the bitter air. Following, he shuts the door and trails behind Arthur. Whistling, he spots the Count, grazing at the treeline, lift his head and trot over to them.

“You didn’t need to take the money after all of that.” Arthur says, mercifully lifting Lenny up onto the back of his horse and running a hand softly over the fabric of the boy’s shirt. The back is stained red as well, a hole in the centre of the mess, matching the front. Dutch grasps the reins and leads the Count closer, letting out a sigh as he watches Arthur pass a sideways glance at him.

“I came here for a reason, I wasn’t going to go out empty-handed.”

“I was also here for a reason,” Arthur admits, tugging himself up onto the back of his horse after untying the reins from the post. “We were.” Dutch does the same, looking at Arthur with a look of curious intrigue. The man pulls his hands up and leans with the movement of the horse, turning himself around and moving further into the town. Dutch is right behind him, moving up to ride beside him.

“And that would be, if I may ask?” Dutch prods.

“Heard you were headed up this way, thought we’d have a nice chat,” Arthur says, keeping his eyes ahead and his horse at a steady trot. “Catch up a bit before I turned you in for that big stack of money you’ve got on your head.”

“Don’t tell me you’re a bounty hunter, Arthur.” Dutch furrows his brows, trying to see the expression on Arthur’s face, but not being able to read it from the side as soon as he gets close enough.

“No, I ain’t no damn bounty hunter. And I wasn’t gonna turn you in immediately, neither.” Arthur shakes his head. “But if the pay’s high enough, I’ll go collect a few if I’ve got the time.” He lowers his eyes a bit from the trail ahead of them, glancing back at Lenny before bringing the horse to a quicker-paced movement.

“So how’d you know I was in Creede?”

“Heard from an outside source, and no, I don’t care to disclose that information.” Arthur is quick to change the subject, Dutch still caught up in the midst of it. He’d heard from someone? Could it have been Micah, blabbing his drunken mouth too loud at a few uncomfortable women in a bar? Perhaps from the person Micah had first heard of the bank? “It’ll take a day or two to get there at the very least, so I suggest you get yourself comfortable until we camp.” Arthur speaks so surely, as if he’d been plotting this for a while. The thought disappears faster than it had appeared in the first place, so Dutch doesn’t think too much on it.

They ride in silence for a large part of the day, Arthur looking to be sullen and broken the entire way there. The man begins to hum something at one point, and Dutch is only able to join in for a moment before Arthur stops and their voices go silent again. Dutch lets out a quiet sigh before spotting deer ahead and noticing the subtle darkening of the sky. Giving a fair warning to Arthur, he pulls out the first long-range gun he’s got on his horse and fires, tugging on the reins and leading the Count towards the animal. The stallion gives little to no fight, having gotten so well-acquainted with Dutch that the firepower above his head is no longer frightening past the initial jolt.

Dutch hops off of the horse, looking to see Arthur having stopped along the path. His gaze returns to the animal, unceremoniously lifting its carcass from the ground and hoisting it over the rump of the Count. A few ropes are tied here and there to keep it down, and he saddles up again to return to Arthur’s side.

“Figure we should get settled here for a while. The sun’s going down and we need to rest up for tomorrow,” Dutch announces, to which Arthur silently agrees with a nod. They move along the path a little bit further before Dutch points out a spot and leads their horses towards it. It’s a small clearing in the middle of a forest of trees, but it’ll do for the two of them and their cooked venison meat.

Lugging himself off of the horse, he pats the stallion’s neck and moves towards the centre of the area. The spot above them is uncovered, but the light left in the sky illuminates only a few, small clouds, so he doesn’t worry for too long. Arthur can be seen a few yards away searching for pieces of firewood, a growing amount of logs tucked under his arm as he searches. Dutch turns around and hoists the deer onto his shoulder, setting it down on the ground and revealing a knife from his belt.

He easily removes the hide, tossing it back where the deer had just been on the Count and returning to the middle of the clearing with his bedroll, where Arthur has already laid his out and is steadily getting a fire going. There’s a tiny spark on the wood when Dutch pulls out his box of stolen matches and drags it across the heel of his boot again, dropping it onto the pile of lumber before replacing the box in his pocket. Arthur takes a step back and looks Dutch in the eyes only for a moment, then averts his gaze and focuses on the deer carcass, cutting it up into simple parts. He wraps the pieces of fat into a piece of parchment and sets it into his satchel, taking half of the meat and leaving the rest for Dutch, who pierces a piece with his knife and sits himself comfortably by the fire. Arthur sits exactly opposite of him, clearly staying as far from Dutch as he can, without being painfully obvious.

“You’re quiet,” Dutch says out of nowhere, tired of their continuous silence. “I don’t blame you, but…” Dutch grits his teeth a bit as he notices he doesn’t really know what to say to Arthur. They’d left each other on such rocky terms, it’s distressing.

“You have much of an idea what we’re supposed to talk about?” Arthur asks, a pointed gaze stabbing clean through Dutch before being removed. Dutch shifts a bit, holding the meat over the flames.

“We don’t know each other all that well, is all, I’m only trying to make the time pass quicker.” Dutch feels as if he has to explain everything. Everything isn’t justified enough for Arthur until he explains it, and he recognises this feeling. He used to be the same way with Molly, and look at their relationship now. “I don’t remember much from that night.”

“Clearly,” Arthur looks to be pouting like a child on the other side of the fire, holding the meat on his own knife and removing it as soon as it’s cooked enough. He takes a bite as Dutch mulls over what exactly he wants to say. There’s a wall between him and Arthur right now, and he’d be lying if he said it isn’t outrageously frustrating.

“What did I miss?” He asks without thinking, allowing it to break through his trained filter. “That night? Did I say something incorrectly?”

“No, it wasn’t  _ you _ that said—” Arthur is cut off by a rather violent shiver, the man’s hands moving to his arms to warm himself up a bit. Dutch takes notice of this, finishing his piece of meat and standing from his spot. He holds up a hand to keep Arthur from speaking as he walks away and approaches his horse. Unbuckling a saddlebag, he retrieves a folded mass of black fabric and buckles the bag again. Returning to their little makeshift camp, Dutch tosses it at Arthur and sits back in his spot.

Arthur is hesitant at first, swallowing a piece of meat before reaching for it and unravelling the folded bundle of fur. He takes a breath when he sees the sleeves, feeling the quality easily as soon as the collar comes into view. A winter coat, likely made from the skins of bison and bear, from how thick and insulating it feels in his fingers.

“Wear it for the night. There’s no reason for you to get sick.” Dutch lifts another piece of meat from his share of the deer, cooking it the same as he had the other one.

“I’ll be fine.” Arthur begins to set it aside, and Dutch’s face falls a bit.

“Put the coat on, Arthur.” Dutch persists, a stern look shot at Arthur as soon as the man looks up to meet his eyes over the flames. “And tell me what happened that made you suddenly disappear the morning after that night.” Arthur heaves out a sigh, standing and tugging it over his shoulders. Despite his own toned frame, he notices his fingers only partly visible from the cuff of the sleeve and sits down as he pulls them up a bit. It’s absolutely warmer than sitting there in his normal wear, and he can already feel it holding the heat of his body in.

Dutch watches as the man sits again, removing the piece of meat from the knife and finishing it in a few bites as he does. Arthur takes a breath and glances at the ground.

“I’ve made a mistake like this before, only… it had a bit more of a lasting effect.” Arthur looks pained to tell this to Dutch, but he’s speaking nonetheless, so Dutch doesn’t make an effort to stop him. “She was a waitress, I was stupidly lonely one night, and…” his head slumps a bit more, his shoulders raised. “She ended up pregnant.” Dutch lets out a sigh, leaning forward with a look of empathy and compassion on his face. “Don’t get me wrong, I wanted a kid eventually, but it all happened so fast, so I promised I would be there as much as I could be. Visited every few months.” Arthur’s shoulders drop and he looks up at Dutch. “Till there was suddenly no one left to visit.” He shakes his head. “Robbed for  _ ten dollars, _ Dutch.”

Dutch thinks he understands now. Men like Arthur are few in number, but nearly impossible to forget as soon as you meet them. They go through so much and learn about the world in the worst ways, and it shows. They have a look of longing on their faces, as if they will never truly be satisfied, and many of them can’t handle the aching heart for long, so they fade away. Luckily, Arthur is still fading. There’s still hope.

“I—”

“I know.” Arthur nods, pulling himself a bit further from the fire. “I didn’t know what to make of it either, but…” he trails off for a second before lifting his bedroll and moving to the other side of the fire. He doesn’t set it down directly next to Dutch’s, but it’s close enough to mean something. “Rather not talk about it much anymore, if that’s alright with you.” Dutch nods, Arthur lying down and staring up at the sky. Dutch slowly moves to his own and looks up, listening to the crackling of the fire.

The cold begins to bite at Dutch's nose, but he falls asleep before it gets too prominent.


	12. The Scent of the Deceased

If he hadn’t blamed his sudden advent to consciousness on the heavy, icy fog, Dutch would’ve allowed himself to guess it was the warmth of the man slowly clinging tighter and tighter to his side. He’s able to open one eye, the other taking a bit more coaxing before he’s finally able to fully come to. Arthur’s arm, dressed in Dutch’s winter coat, is across his chest, keeping a warm stripe across his body. His side is slowly being heated up by Arthur’s body, meaning that it’s been there for a while, but the numbness in his face is worrying, and he finds a source of disappointment immediately after waking up.

Dutch shifts onto his side and glances down to see Arthur, the man’s face pressed against his side and sleeping as soundly as he possibly could, with that look of sadness and bitterness on his face. For a moment he feels himself forgetting that he’s an outlaw, and that Arthur had been planning on turning him in just hours earlier, and he lifts his other arm. His fingers are numb, but they’re not quite turned white just yet. Combing his fingers through Arthur’s hair, he lies his head back against the cold earth, only cushioned by the thin bedroll he’d been lying on all night. The man’s hair has tiny specks of snow sprinkled around the edges, and Dutch can feel the wetness when he lifts his hand and rubs one of them between his fingers. The others take a bit longer to melt against his chilled skin, but they eventually do.

Lifting a hand, he curls the fingers around and blows hot air against the outermost sections of them, hoping to warm up the most vulnerable parts first. Of course, the sound is what rouses Arthur from his sleep, the man blinking and immediately moving to lie back and stretch his arms out a bit more. His back cracks a few times and he sighs, glancing up to see Dutch there.

“You were shiverin’ like a shittin’ dog over here last night, thought you could’ve used a bit of warmin’ up.” Arthur immediately pushes an excuse out, sitting up and positioning his legs to stand. Pulling himself up, he looks back down at Dutch and huffs out a breath into his own hands, cupped over his mouth. “Don’t be gettin’ any ideas. You know I was only drunk that night, and I don’t want to hear any more of your talk,” Arthur lifts a hand and mimics a mouth with his hand, opening and closing it by his ear. “Gettin’ in my ear like you know you are.” Dutch looks up at Arthur with a relaxed expression, finding a bit of comedic relief in the man’s sudden change in behaviour. He’d say the pink on Arthur’s cheeks was from his embarrassment, but he has half a mind that says Arthur is also freezing.

“Well, son, the most I can say is,” Dutch pushes himself up into a standing position, his words being slightly forced as he does. “Had you not woken up when you did, I think I would’ve taken my sweet revenge on you for your little stunt at the inn that morning.” He steps closer to Arthur, the man only slightly taller than him.

“And you woulda done what, Dutch?” They stare at one another, each trying to will the other to step away. “Shot my ear off, after everything that happened yesterday?” Arthur glances over at his own horse and the previous day hits him like a pile of bricks. “Shit,” he mutters, leaning down to grasp the end of his bedroll. Tugging it up off of the ground, he rolls it up tightly along his front and tightens the straps. Moving towards his horse, he stops in his place and groans out, clapping a hand over his nose and folding over forward. “Christ alive,” he mutters past his hand, glaring at the cause of the offensive smell.

Dutch follows, curious, and steps up to stand next to Arthur. The smell attacking him is absolutely horrendous, and he can feel his throat tightening up to pull the bile from his stomach. He swallows thickly, looking at Arthur to see if he’s got anything to say about it. The man’s chest heaves a breath before he steps closer to the horse and steadily works the bedroll back onto the mare’s back, then stepping several paces back and exhaling.

“Got any ideas, smart guy?” Arthur turns to Dutch, sarcasm playing coy in his tone.

“Scent covering lotion?” Dutch offers, ignoring the obvious attempt at an insult. Arthur thinks for a minute, looking at the corpse draped over the back of his horse. Dutch can tell, even without asking, that Arthur doesn’t feel the same as the day before. It’s more of a melancholic wavering idea, rather than a constant depressor. “If there’s a trapper nearby, surely, we can get something to drape over him otherwise.”

“Both.” Arthur nods. “Either one alone won’t cover up that god awful smell.”

“And it’ll only get worse as time goes on,” Dutch agrees. Arthur folds his bottom lip in for a second and allows his teeth to pass over it before letting it go and nodding. He looks to Dutch, seeing the accentuated pink on his face, especially on his nose.

“Let’s get on it, then.” Dutch watches as Arthur lifts himself onto the horse, the man taking a few deep breaths. “There’s one just up this way. Not too far if we go quick.” Arthur’s reins are snapped down and his spurs dug into the side of the horse before Dutch even mounts his own steed, causing Dutch to immediately jump to action and ride after him.

He barely dodges and avoids a few snowy tree branches as he attempts to catch up with Arthur, seeing the previously-fallen snow on the ground as he moves further up the mountain. There are prints in the cold powder which he follows, taking a sharp left and verbally apologising to the Count when the stallion complains about the sliding of his hooves against the ground.

Then, as if perfectly on-time, he hears a gunshot. It’s coming from ahead of him, but it sounds rather distant. He lowers his chest a bit closer to the back of the horse’s neck, just as a precaution. His hand itches to hold a gun, something to keep him from being immediately killed. He’s never been a perfect sharp-shooter by any means, but at the very least he can fend off one or two people if need-be.

“He’s got Van der Linde on his tail! Give ‘em all you got!” He hears a voice, noticeably an O’Driscoll’s. He’d hoped they wouldn’t come this far north, that he’d be safe for the few days he was in the mountains, but clearly, his wishes were not fulfilled.

Immediately, he hears a bullet whizz past his ear and cracks the reins down harder as more approach. His hand retrieves the gun from his holster and points it in the general direction of the gun fodder, firing a shot but focusing on the task at hand. He watches as a hill turns into a downward slope, catching view of Arthur and gritting his teeth as he tries to push the Count just a bit harder. The horse chuffs beneath him, a whinny of contempt clearing the sound of gunfire.

Then, as he’s about to call out to Arthur, he watches as Lenny’s corpse hits the ground. It’s almost as if he can hear the distinct thud of it falling against the cold earth, but Arthur doesn’t turn around to pick the boy up. Dutch’s eyebrows furrow and he slows only for a second when passing by. Arthur is not phased by the loss, clearly seen from how eager he remains as he rides away.

Dutch has no choice but to tail him, tossing his revolver back to his belt and steadily keeping his sights forward.

As soon as they’re out of the woods, so to speak, he finally catches up with Arthur. The man’s left arm is hanging limp, his other tugging on the reins to slow his horse and turn it back around. Immediately after Dutch comes to a stop, he’s unable to stop the temper from bubbling up through his confused and shocked expression despite Arthur’s obvious injury.

“Arthur, you left the boy—”

“Who gives a shit about ‘the boy’, Dutch? You, or me?” Arthur’s words are laced with a frightening amount of venom, forcing Dutch’s words to stop in their paces. “Certainly ain’t me.” Arthur hisses. “But god  _ damn _ , if they can’t do it right, I’ll have to do it myself.” The quick hand movement catches Dutch by surprise.

His breath subtly catches in his throat when he’s looking directly down the barrel of a sawed-off and Arthur’s sad eyes glaring at him just above.


	13. Heart On My Sleeve

“Arthur,” Dutch raises his hands a bit, his eyes trained on Arthur’s as he tries to soothe the man, clearly injured in front of him. “Let’s not be hasty, no need to point that at me.” Arthur laughs, glaring harder and staring directly down the edge of the sawed-off at Dutch.

“I’m sure there isn’t, outlaw.”

“You’ve been shot, Arthur, let me take you to a doctor, or patch you up until you can get yourself to one.”

“You think I can’t damn well handle myself, Van der Linde,” Arthur questions, lowering the gun. Inside, Dutch silently celebrates the small achievement. If he can talk Arthur down, maybe he’ll be able to talk him into seeing a doctor for the clearly bleeding wound in his left arm. The red is slowly staining his shirt sleeve, trickling in thick streams along the cuff and onto his fingers before dripping to the ground. “Look who’s just in front of me, frozen like a deer lookin’ straight down my barrel.”

“Arthur—”

“You ain’t hearin’ me, Dutch.”

“I’m sure,” Dutch nods, feeling as the Count shifts beneath him. “Let me come closer, we can speak about this…”

“You’re a snake.” Arthur raises the firearm again, Dutch moving back to sitting straight up with his arms raised before him. “You wiggle around in other peoples’ heads and then you make ‘em go insane.” Arthur’s arm is still dangling loosely at his side, not moving much aside the casual swing moving alongside Arthur’s body.

“Arthur.” Dutch lowers his voice, seeing as the man physically hesitates and tosses the firearm to the ground several feet away. “Thank you.” Arthur lets out a heavy sigh when he sees Dutch lower himself to the ground, his mind already dizzy from the blood loss. “Come here,” Dutch reaches up to Arthur, not quite caring about the blood now steadily dripping onto the toe of his boot. Arthur leans a bit towards Dutch, his arm still loose as it hangs limp to his side. Dutch hooks his fingers on either side of Arthur’s waist, pulling him down to the ground.

“I was gonna turn you in.”

“Turn me in? After everything?” Arthur’s brows crease his forehead and his bottom lip pops out in a pout. He looks guilty.

“Sure,” Arthur slowly nods, Dutch gently sitting him in the grass against a tree. “I need the money just as much as anyone else, but…”

“But?” Arthur takes a long time to respond, Dutch wandering back to the Count to pull out a scarf or rag, something longer than his handkerchief to tie around Arthur’s arm. He finds a black scarf, glad that the blood will not likely stain to the point of being visible on such a dark fabric. He moves back to Arthur, who lets out a slow sigh and relaxes against the bark of the tree.

“I can’t,” Arthur shakes his head, his eyebrows pushed down low in desperation and a deep-seated conflict.

“Can’t?” Dutch repeats, trying to get Arthur to continue. He kneels and gently lifts Arthur’s arm, bending a knee and propping the limb up on the surface of his leg. “Can’t what, Arthur?” He glances up to see Arthur’s eyes drooping, lifting a hand to grip Arthur’s chin and keep him awake. “Stay awake for me, no need to fall asleep now.”

“But I’m so tired,” Arthur breathes, pouting still. Dutch shakes his head and steadily wraps the scarf around Arthur’s arm, pulling it tight to keep the blood flow light.

“Tell me why you can’t shoot me, then, Arthur. But don’t fall asleep.”

“Because,” Arthur sighs, the pout deepening. He almost looks like a child in a time-out the way he sinks against the tree bark in frustration. “You’re just… different.”

“Different?” Arthur hisses when the scarf is pulled tighter than before, a knot being tied to keep it in place. Arthur hums in agreement, shuffling in his position as he tries to find a comfortable position. He can feel his pulse under the fabric, that’s how tight it is.

“Yeah, I have this…  _ thing _ keepin’ me from doin’ anythin’ to you. You’re like a sight for sore eyes to me, Dutch, an’ I don’t know what else you want me to say.”

“I see.”

“Can you take this off?” Arthur shuffles again, still pouting. Dutch’s gaze lifts to Arthur’s eyes and he shakes his head. “Kinda hurts.”

“Come on. We’ll get you to a doctor, then we can talk about taking it off.” Dutch stands, putting a hand out for Arthur to take. He looks up at Dutch for just a second before reaching with his uninjured arm and taking Dutch’s hand. “You’d think I’m helping a child.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, old man?” Arthur snaps in return as soon as he’s standing, looking down at his arm, then back up at Dutch, who is standing with his arms slightly prepared for Arthur to fall over.

“Not a thing, son. Not a thing.” Dutch lifts Arthur’s healthy arm over his shoulders and begins walking him towards Arthur’s horse. Arthur steps slowly alongside him, not finding it too terribly difficult with Dutch being a few inches shorter than he is.

“Why aren’t we takin’ yours?”

“He don’t like when others ride on him. Pain in my ass, but sweet all the same.” Arthur slowly nods, leaning against his horse as Dutch pats the beast’s neck and saddles himself up. Scooting himself back, he takes Arthur’s hand and pulls him up to sit in front of Dutch.

“So we’re goin’ to the doctor?” Arthur leans back against Dutch’s chest, the man’s presence soothing him in his woozy state.

“Sure enough,” Dutch nods, tugging on the reins and whistling for the Count to follow along. “To get’cha all fixed up.” Arthur nods again, leaning further against Dutch as he snaps the reins down and forces them to a quick trot along the trail carved into the mountainside. “It’ll be a while, but I need you to stay awake, Arthur.”

“But—”

“No buts.” Arthur sighs and slowly nods in agreement.

“Okay.”


	14. Bittersweet Goodbyes

Arthur is finally taken to the doctor in Valentine at around nightfall, the entire ride going by moderately quickly as he slips in and out of a lovely unconsciousness, leant back against Dutch’s chest. It’s warm, daresay inviting, and Arthur adores it; adores Dutch. Those arms loosely draped by Arthur’s sides, gently snapping the reins down when Arthur’s horse get a little slower than preferred, his thighs keeping Arthur on the horse no matter how much he slides, and his chin resting just to the right of Arthur’s face. Dutch is to be cherished and enjoyed for his divinity.

They’re in and out pretty quickly, Arthur being shot up with morphine before anything happens, Dutch sitting outside of the doctor’s office as the doctor pulls the bullet from Arthur’s arm. Dutch reenters the room several minutes later to see Arthur pushing the reddened metal chunk around the surface of a desk, the doctor wrapping Arthur’s wounded arm in a thick piece of white fabric. The man pulls it tight, Arthur tensing and relaxing as the pain obviously shoots through his nerves.

“Feeling alright, there, Arthur?” Dutch questions, slowly moving closer and placing his hand on Arthur’s uninjured shoulder. Arthur nods in response, lifting the bloody bullet and twisting it around between his fingertips. His distant eyes are locked on the dressing, which is slowly turning a deep red.

“Keep that tight there for a while, should clear up a bit,” the doctor nods, standing from a chair and reaching towards a table off to the side, snagging a thin, clear bottle and holding it out to Dutch, who takes it and examines it. There’s no label, only a watery, clear fluid inside. “Rub that on the wound every time you replace that with another,” the doctor reaches now for a drawer, retrieving a second thick piece of fabric. “And wash the dirty one off with boiled water, not directly from a stream or anywhere else. Could get infected and cause him more pain. Got that?” Dutch slowly nods, pulling the cork out from the lip of the bottle and taking a whiff. Blowing a smooth breath through his lips, he pulls the bottle away.

“That smells like moonshine, if not something worse.”

“Think of it as medical moonshine, sir. It’s not illegal, while others may be.”

“Why shouldn’t he just drink it, then? Surely it’ll have the same effects?”

“It won’t,” the doctor shakes his head, moving towards Arthur. “The alcohol will kill any remaining bacteria, but only if directly applied. Does that make sense?” Dutch nods, popping the cork back into the bottle. “It’ll hurt for at least a few minutes when you apply it at first, but a guzzle or two of whiskey should knock that pain back at least a little bit.”

“How much do I owe you? For him?” Dutch moves to reach for his pocket, planning on spending what little he picked up in Creede. At least it’ll be for a good cause, he supposes. For Arthur.

“Fifty should cover the cloth pieces and alcohol just fine.” Dutch retrieves the sixty from his pocket, easily folding a ten away from the pile and handing the rest to the doctor. He shuffles over to Arthur and slowly pulls him to his feet by his uninjured arm, holding the bottle of moonshine and lying the extra piece of fabric over his own arm. Arthur wobbles a bit, the bloody bullet dropping to the floor as his fingers loosen. “And if he gets sick, or it gets suddenly worse, come straight back.” Dutch looks over his shoulder at the doctor, nodding.

“Will do,” Dutch smiles a bit and reaches an unoccupied hand out to shake the doctor’s. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” the doctor escorts them out, leaving them to stand on the porch just outside of the office. Dutch looks at Arthur and tilts his head, a small smile on his face as he watches Arthur glance around like he’s seeing everything for the first time.

“He really drugged you up good, didn’t he?” Arthur takes a moment to look at Dutch, slowly nodding when he does, and Dutch lets out a small laugh. Of all the things this man could be, he’s got to be pretty damn lucky that Dutch still cared— still  _ cares _ about him. Even after all of the confusion.

“It’s wearin’ off, my head is poundin’.” Arthur mutters, groaning at the sound of his own voice ricocheting and reverberating off the inside of his skull. “Not as bad as the pain in my arm, here, though.”

“We’ll get you some rest.” Dutch pulls Arthur’s arm further up onto his shoulders, beginning to teach Arthur how to walk again as the morphine lingers and dissipates from the man’s veins. “Anything to eat? To drink?”

“No,” Arthur shakes his head and lowers his gaze, following their feet with his eyes.

Dutch nods and pulls him just a bit closer, moving him towards the inn. As soon as it comes into view, though, that night comes flooding back to him in an instant.

“This is where we met, Arthur,” Dutch whispers, causing Arthur to lift his head and dazedly look at the sign.

“Sure is,” he nods. “I remember the pain in my ass, walkin’ outta here.” Dutch laughs just slightly, humouring Arthur as they finally pass through the door.

“Just one, for two nights.” Dutch smoothly places his last ten on the desk and nods when he sees the innkeeper open his mouth to speak about the last time they’d visited. “And don’t worry. Not planning on making too much noise this time.” The innkeeper slowly nods and pulls the bill off of the surface, eyeing Dutch closely as he helps Arthur up the stairs.

At one point, Arthur’s arm hits the wall and he hisses in a sharp pain, Dutch pausing them and looking Arthur in the face to make sure he’s not permanently hurt. After a few moments, Arthur looks up at the top of the stairs and urges Dutch on. The sooner they get to the room, the better.

“Come on, you can make it,” Dutch hums, arms keeping a snug hold on him as they finally reach the top and move along the hallway. It’s just as painstaking as the stairs, unfortunately, but they make it to the room, and it’s surprisingly, the same one they’d been in that night. It looks much cleaner, and definitely much brighter than it did, but Dutch was drunk, and so was Arthur. Their views were distorted for the most part.

Pushing through the doorway, Dutch kicks the door shut and slowly moves Arthur towards the bed. He’s able to set the moonshine down on one of the tables and lie the cloth just beside it, Arthur leaning back on the mattress and heaving a heavy sigh.

“Shit, that  _ hurts _ ,” Arthur glares at the wrapping on his arm, the morphine seeming to have completely worn off of him by now. “Bastard ripped that bullet out an’ gave me no warning.” Dutch nods, sighing and crossing the room to grab the liquor and cloth he’d just sat down.

“I know, but he helped you in one way or another, Arthur, remember that.” Dutch moves closer and sits beside Arthur, who looks at his hands and shakes his head.

“No. Not again, please.” Dutch frowns, sighing.

“We have to, that one’s already bloody.”

“It hurts enough already, Dutch, I don’t think we need to do this now. Can we do it in the mornin’?”

“No. What if it gets infected, Arthur? Come on.” Arthur shakes his head, moving to scoot away before being caught by the wrapping around his wound. He lets out a sharp cry, Dutch hushing him and moving closer with a look in his eyes. Caring. “I can get you something to soothe it afterwards, alright? Just stick with me.” Dutch looks into Arthur’s eyes, the man looking away after just a moment.

“Fine,” Arthur nods, loosening his muscles a bit for Dutch to remove the wrapping cleanly. Dutch examines how it was tied at first, then removes it and sets it on the bedside table where it won’t seep into the sheets. Arthur tenses when he sees Dutch opening the moonshine, and Dutch simply leans closer to help keep Arthur calm.

“Hush, it’s alright,” he speaks as if he’s addressing a child, pouring a bit of the moonshine onto the cloth. “It’ll be over soon.” And he slowly presses it to the wound, watching as Arthur tenses and tries to tear away.

“Jesus!”

Dutch moves forward and catches his other shoulder, keeping him there and looking him in the eyes as he lets out a cry of pain. “I know, it’s alright.” He pulls it away, Arthur looking down at the hole in his arm still steadily bleeding. Dutch is careful when tying the cloth around the wound, remembering how the other was tied and replicating it. Arthur has his eyes shut tightly when Dutch pulls away, his non-injured arm’s fist tensed harshly.

“There,” Dutch pops the cork into the moonshine and moves it to the other side of the room to symbolise distance between Arthur and the bottle. “All done for now, alright? We’re done.”

“You said you’d get me a whiskey.” Arthur says, looking up at Dutch, who slowly approaches and nods.

“I did.”

“So will you?”

“Of course. I am a man of my word.” Arthur smiles just a bit, still gritting his teeth behind the tight lips. “I’ll be back in just a few minutes, try not to hurt yourself any more than you have.” Arthur nods, watching at Dutch turns and exits the room, leaving Arthur alone and with a throbbing pain in his arm.

He lies down at first, staring up at the ceiling as he waits for Dutch. Sure, he wants to sleep, but the promise of liquor keeps him awake. He ends up kicking off his boots and removing his belt with one hand, which proves to be a bit harder than he first thought, but he’s able to set his belongings aside and forget about their existence for a bit.

Dutch returns after just a few minutes, just as he’d said, and Arthur thanks him when he’s handed a glass. Dutch explains that he’d had to buy the glass as well, but shrugs when Arthur moves to apologise for the extra payment. With being an outlaw, surely he’s short for money, but maybe Dutch is learning a lesson about being a good person here. Maybe he can change if Arthur is capable of keeping him level-headed.

They sit next to each other for a few minutes, Arthur staring off into nowhere as he focuses on the liquor passing through his system and slowly soothing the pain.

Dutch lets out a sigh, standing and removing his tailcoat, along with his vest and his belt, kicking off his boots as well. They’re set aside before he moves back and past Arthur, lying back on the bed. Arthur glances back at him, then at the empty glass of what used to be whiskey, then sets it down and lies beside Dutch.

“Crazy that we’re back here, innit?” Dutch asks, looking over at Arthur, who slowly nods. There’s a slow pause until Dutch completely changes the subject. “Who was that boy, Arthur? In Creede?”

“Lenny? He…” Arthur thinks for a moment. What can he say? He was never really close to Lenny, they’d only been recruited by a third party to kill, arrest, or otherwise ruin Dutch van der Linde. Arthur just happened to be ridiculously overwhelmed by Dutch and has now fallen into this mess of picking sides. “We didn’t really know each other all that well. I was… only leadin’ you on.”

“You got him killed, just to lead me on?”

“It had to be believable.”

The look Dutch gives Arthur sends a chill down Arthur’s spine. He looks disappointed. Arthur wonders if it’s really Dutch who needs to change, seeing that the man has been nothing but nice to him since their very first meeting.

After several moments, “Who hired you.”

“Who? Hired me? No one…”

“You’re lying.” Arthur is caught red-handed and he frowns.

“Micah Bell. The man you were with.”

“Micah?” Dutch asks. “He put you up to this? But I thought…”

“Said you’d been pissin’ him off, that he wanted control over the group. So he told me you were going to Creede, and we met you there.”

Dutch thinks for several moments. What is he supposed to say, when his right-hand man has turned against him? Should he even trust Arthur? What if this is just another ploy? Obviously Arthur is willing to go to the extremes in order to persuade someone.

In a twisted mind, Dutch thinks about how Arthur would be a valuable addition to the gang as a replacement for Micah. Like the first chair beside a conductor, or the queen standing so highly beside the king in a game of chess.

“What did you think of Micah?” Dutch asks, brows furrowed. Arthur looks over, letting out a brief breath.

“Wasn’t my favourite person, I’ll tell you that.” Dutch looks to Arthur finally, pushing himself under the covers, easily followed by Arthur. They look at each other for just a moment before Dutch moves closer and looks at Arthur, closer now.

“What do you think about being in the Van der Linde gang?” He asks, and Arthur’s jaw falls open in half-disgust. “We could always use those with more experience, especially when I plan to push Micah away as soon as I return to camp.”

Arthur purses his lips and really thinks about this. If Dutch means this, and from the way his eyes speak in volumes for him, he does. Maybe Arthur can still run if it’s not too late, or he’s not too far into it. Like a trial run.

“Sure,” Arthur shrugs his functioning shoulder, watching as Dutch’s face lights up with such an innocently devilish smile. “One thing, though.” Arthur pushes himself forward and their lips gently touch, Dutch’s hand lying idly on Arthur’s thigh under the covers as he does this.

“That would be,” Dutch whispers, despite completely understanding what Arthur wants, Arthur lifting a hand to cup Dutch’s face as he shakes his head and smiles.

“Just shut up and kiss me, Van der Linde.”


End file.
